Happy Birthday to Me
So, I turned 35 today. I’m not sure how I feel about that. 35 feels old, and I don’t feel old, exactly. Although I do feel old enough to worry about it.
I loved turning 30. None of that “29 and holding” stuff for me. I proudly embraced entering my thirties. Thirty was exciting, promising the credibility of maturity coupled with the possibilities of youth. It was the gateway to the adult world, and I happily skipped through to take my rightful place at the grownups’ table, confident that the best was yet to come.
A lot has happened between then and now: I moved out of the basement apartment–lovingly referred to as “the hovel”–that Diva Girl and I lived in for the first 4.5 years of her life into the 8th storey beige box we now call home. I had a second baby and went from holding my own to being outnumbered by the inmates in my asylum. We spent the longest three weeks of my life living in a pediatric oncology unit and walked out with a miracle I hadn’t even let myself hope for. The Zen Baby has grown from a scared, silent shadow into a vibrant, sociable chatterbox, something I worried I’d never see. I gave up fulltime teaching and fulfilled a dream I’d forgotten I had by becoming a professional writer (of sorts). I reconnected with the best friend I thought I’d lost forever, and didn’t lose her again when she moved 3000 km away (although I miss her every day). I made some friends (and enemies), killed some fish, got a kitten, and recovered enough from the trauma of a really, really bad haircut to not only embrace the idea of short hair, but to act on it.
But, in spite of all that, I just don’t feel like 5 years have passed. That I’m now halfway through my thirties.
Thirtyfive year olds are not just grown ups, they are Grown Up. I guess I just didn’t picture this being my life at 35. I’m not quite sure what I did picture, but I’m pretty sure eating dinner off of the Spiderman plate didn’t figure into the plan. And if I’m honest, I guess at some point, a husband did figure into that. Thirtyfive year olds have car payments and mortgages and ‘m pretty sure Spongebob will get his license before I get mine and I have no interest in homeownership. The thing is, though, I’m ok with the way things are now. Happy with it, even. I may not feel like your typical Grown Up 35 year old, but I feel like me, which is even better, I think.
And I still think that the best is yet to come.