37 and counting.
Last week I turned thirty seven and thirty seven is almost forty and I don’t know how I feel about that. OK so maybe thirty seven isn’t almost forty. But it is almost almost forty. It’s tipping the line from mid-thirties into late. It’s getting there.
And, maybe, I do know how I feel about turning thirty seven.
I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
To say I haven’t been taking this birthday well might just be an understatement. I’ve dreaded it. I’ve cried over it. I’ve mourned it. I came close to not planning anything for it and, when I finally did, I almost cancelled those plans about a million times over. And when my friends kept dropping out I kept telling them it was OK because I didn’t even want to be going.
Because I didn’t even want to be going.
It’s not so much the age that has me freaked out right now. It’s not thirty seven itself. Thirty seven is a fine age. I’m sure. It’s where I am at thirty seven. It’s where I am as I get close to almost forty.
And where I am, right now, is nowhere.
When I was younger I used to dream about my future. I was going to publish my novel. It was going to be a best seller. I was going to be on Oprah and would become even more of a best seller. I was going to win awards. I was going to be on all of those 25 before 25 lists. I was going to fall in love. I was going to get married. I was going to have a house that I was going to refurbish from the ground up. I was going to be successful. I was going to be happy. I was going to be content.
And now, well now Oprah isn’t even on TV anymore.
And now, now I’d settle for making a 7.6 billion under 7.6 billion list.
OK, so maybe I dreamed high there. Maybe most of those things had a slim to none chance of happening to begin with. But I at least thought that by the time I was almost almost forty I would have the successful, the content, and the happy parts down.
And, right now, all I feel is stuck.
Between two birthday lunches and a birthday dinner, I at least ate a lot of good food. And that is something to be happy about. (p.s. my diesh is actually going OK but birthdays are always cheat days OK?)
Some days I feel like this is it. This is all there is for me. Nothing is going to change for me. Nothing is going to get better for me. Nothing more is ever going to happen for me. And so, as I get older, as I turn thirty seven, it’s just another stagnant year to look forward to. And, so, I cry and I mourn and I dread.
But other days I have hope. And other days I have hustle. And other days I’m making things happen. I’m making changes. I’m working hard towards me real goals. And those are the days I’m trying to hold onto. That I’m trying to stretch for all they are worth. So that maybe by the time I’m actually almost forty and by the time I’m forty and by the time I’m fifty or eighty or 6.4 billion year old, I’ll finally feel like I’m exactly where I want to be.
P.S. That card is from Sapling Press. (affiliate link)