36

Thirty six.

Already today, a comment about how age is something women are scared of and lie about. Women aren’t all the same person. Placing labels on anyone is your way of ignoring reality. I don’t have this fear, but I can understand it.

I will never and have never been the kind of person to lie about my age or pretend I’m still in my twenties. I’ve had this blog since my twenties, but I’m thirty-six.

Today, I’m thirty six.

My tongue wraps happily around that number. I like it better than 35, and I think because 6 is a multiple of 3… but perhaps not. Perhaps I simply like this age better because I spent all of last year 36. I forgot my age in the Spring and have been thinking I was 36 since March,  instead of 35.

I enjoy my age, I’ve earned it. I’m glad I’m out of the rat race of the late-twenties, the popularity contest of the early twenties, the self-delusion of my teens. I’m comfortably more than a third of the way through a whole century.

I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin now. Very much so, my life is an odd fit. It’s not at all what I thought it would be, but I do like it.

I have a life that provides challenge, and contains pretty much only the people who love me. They challenge me at times, but they all love me.

I’ve removed from my life everyone who didn’t improve it, and I’ve flourished as a result.

I think the future ahead looks busy but bright, and that I might even be getting stable enough now to truly start building my own life, instead of just the life that I was having while I waited.

So, that’s my birthday wish for myself. Starting with 36 years old, my real 36, not last year’s 36, this is my real life, not just the placeholder. 36 is time to make my visible, actual life more mine.

I bought two, then broke one, and then The Guy bought me three replacements for the very first coffee cups I’ve ever owned that really feel perfect in my hand. It’s a start. Next perhaps I’ll paint something red.

Today, I’m thirty six.