Me about 35 years ago.

Yesterday was my 37th birthday, and to quote my mom, “How the hell did I get to be 37?” (although my mom used the number 60 when she said this a handful of years ago). Seriously though, how did I get to be 37? Wasn’t it just last year when I turned 30 and then moved out here to be with Patrick? Wasn’t it only a couple of years ago when I was starting college and mooning over the brooding poet in my literary studies class as he discussed the deeper meaning of The Unbearable Lightness of Being? (true story – he actually said in class, “I don’t see this as a love story, but a story about the absence of love.” I was smitten).

In all honesty, I’m OK with being 37. I once had a boyfriend who told me that while I was chronologically 19, emotionally I was 40.  I always thought that my life would make more sense the closer I got to that age. Now that I think about it, it has. I mean, I’m still struggling with balancing everything – family, work, my own interests and dreams. But I have learned to let things go, to not worry about things I can’t control. I’m trying to live in the present and enjoy what I have instead of think about and obsess over what I want, because chances are, I’m not going to get those things. Besides, what I have is pretty darn good.

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