Whelp, no longer a ‘youth’, no more ticking that box on forms, now just ordinary adult. Considering relocating northward just so I can tick ‘youth’ for four more years.
My 26th birthday was hard because life had crapped on me without holding back and I had a quarter-life crisis of note.
My 30th was hard because…well, not to overshare but let’s just say I was not where I wanted to be.
My 35th was hard because I’d gotten myself dumped by a man I wasn’t even dating but that I’d allowed myself to kinda-sorta really really like, and also by a woman with whom I’d allowed myself to fall in some kind of deep, authentic love -no homo. Ah, 35 was hard.
So I wasn’t looking forward to 36 beyond the usual excitement one feels at the start of a new year. I had no reason to expect it to be anything but meh, and it was the EXACT opposite.
In the days leading up I reevaluated my circumstances as one does around one’s birthday, and what I found while a little unpretty, was not as bleak as I feared.
I was celebrated and loved by girlfriends and family; the weekend was lovely. I planned to plan how to use my resources to achieve my goals and how to best use my gifts. I got excited for my new year, and though I know that that level of excitement won’t last in the face of real work, I’m ready.
I’m ready to werk, and to my people, thank you.
Thank you for loving me through it all and for allowing me to love you as I can, even when my love was imperfect.
Disappointingly, no cake all weekend but happily, my first macaroon ever. So basically, winning.