I turned 35 the other day.
I have a renewed sense of purpose and excitement for my 30s, for some reason…not sure whether it’s because I lived through 2020 and emerged relatively unscathed or what.
I mean, 34 wasn’t terrible, all things considered. 33 was just weird. I actually might be willing to relive 34, but definitely not 33.
I encountered a lot of harsh realities and faced a lot of hard truths at 33. These realities I don’t really want to expose to the public (pffft because everyone reads this); let’s just say I learned some things about my life at 33 that — whether I wanted to or not — aged me in a matter of hours. I might describe it as the feeling you get moments after binge-watching a depressing-ass drama series, and even that is the thinnest slice of what this revelation did to me. I guess bombshells do that.
And even now I’m dealing with the fallout of it, though time has healed the wound somewhat. I want to believe that’s a good thing, but I feel like it’s not.
Anyway. 35 feels better than 33. At least I’ve got that going for me.