Another year older

When one was younger, the age of 35 sounded like a touchstone, the year by which time one would have garnered a modicum of maturity, a smidgeon of wisdom, the year by which one would at last be settled in one’s skin and completely and comfortably one’s self. 


Boy, younger self, were you wrong. I prefer to think of my birthdays as a marker of having one more year of experience under my belt and I have given up on expecting to feel like I have finally caught up with myself and my alledged ‘age’ because as of yet, that has not happened.

I have really no desire to deny my age because frankly a) being young was not all that wonderful; it was, if anything, ever MORE awkward and unwieldy than now and that is saying something and b) I have had a pretty damn good life so far and I can’t even complain about the bad stuff since it’s all been just normal bad not shockingly horrific bad.

So, happy birthday, me!  And the baby’s crying…


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