Here I am, officially on the slippery slope to 50, and lemme tell ya. I feel fine.

Okay, yes, this country is in the toilet and the world is in disarray and I’m probably going to catch a felony in the grocery store parking lot one day, but on a personal, aging level, I’ve hit a certain kind of zen.

My life is never going to look the way people think it’s supposed to. I’ve blown it up too many times, resisted the all of the responsibilities I could until they were rudely forced on me. I never wanted to be an adult, never wanted to be much of anything other than a dreamer. Writing has always been my vehicle for that, but when it came to turning it into a livelihood, that was just a trick I couldn’t pull off. I do believe I’ve come to terms with that. I’m not stopping; I’m just not making bank.

I know that I should be ashamed of myself for being at my advanced decade and not having a full-time job and being single -not just single, but never married single, haven’t had a relationship in years single- living with my dad, which is spoken like some kind of curse, but the guy has been my roommate since I was 15. If I’m going to have a roommate, it might as well be someone who’s got me in the will.

Right now, as I become 46, as I start that roller coaster hill down to 50, I’m actually pretty content with where I’m at in my life. Not complacent. This is a roller coaster, after all. Hands up, test your nuts. But I’m content.

I like my job at the library. I like that I’m being more social and leaving my house more. I love that I’ve discovered the joy of local bands. I love that I’m strengthening my friendships and building new ones and working to rebuild and strengthen family connections. I love that I’ve finally decided to take care of my damn self. It almost gives the illusion that I’m getting my shit together.

I plan on traipsing through 46 with this energy. I feel like I can make the most of 46 with this energy. Because like I said, I’m content not complacent. I want to grow from this point. I want to cultivate this vibe.

I’ve mentioned before about my Remarkable Life plan, and I have honestly seen some things come from it as if by magic, just like Debbie Millman said. What it really is, though, is being conscious of what I want and what brings me joy, recognizing those opportunities, and then being brave enough to take them. Saying “fuck it” has worked some sorcery in my life in the past couple of years, even though those years have been hard.

I can’t manifest my way out of reality. I know that. I know the exact state of everything, from my insides all the way to the very far out. However, I can do my part to make my little piece of existence more bearable.

Joy is rebellion and 46 feels like both.

Okay, so I turned 45 a few days ago and I’m a bit behind on my birthday post. Mind your business.

Last year, I said that 44 sounded bouncy and fun because double numbers are bouncy and fun. I can’t say that it was necessarily bouncy, but it did have its fun moments. I think mostly, though, I managed to find a certain calm, gooey center of my being for a big part of 44. I attained a certain level of peace that I hadn’t had in a while.

Then everything tanked like a baseball team trying to get first pick in the draft.

45 is a serious number. It just sounds serious. It can be considered a milestone age for some folks. It’s the peak before the downward slope to 50. Fitting that it sounds serious considering that I’ll be spending a not insignificant amount of time dealing with serious business.

But I don’t want the whole age to be serious. That sounds like a drag. However, 45 sounds like a great age to get serious about some of my goals. I spent 44 working on some baby steps for The Remarkable Life Plan and I’ve made some progress. It’s funny how there were some baby steps I intentionally wrote down and actively worked on and there were some that just happened. I’d like to make some more of that magic during 45. So, I need to get serious about it.

I know it’s not going to be easy. The difficulty level of my life has been turned up a little bit. Which is why it’s a good thing that 45 is a serious number. Getting serious about my goals is going to take some serious effort.

I rediscovered my fondness for poetry last year and made a point of working on it. I think my poetry is another thing I’m going to spend 45 getting serious about. It was a bright spot during the hardest last few months of 2024 and 44. I want it to continue to be a bright spot during 45. Will anything come of it? Probably not. It’s looking less and less likely the older I get that I will have any sort of a significant writing career. I just don’t have what it takes. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop writing and finding joy in it.

I realize at this advanced age, so close to 50, I should feel more disappointed about where I am in my life and how much I’ve failed to accomplish and become. I should have more regrets and laments. But I just don’t. I can’t find the energy for it. I’m not doing life right at all, but I am doing it. I’m giving myself credit for that.

I think 45 is going to live up to the serious vibe, but I think I’m going to make the best of it and be serious right back.

And I’ll sneak in a little fun when I can.

For better or worse, I have once again completed another trip around the sun and have hit the magic number of 44. Double digits is always a fun number. I don’t know why. There’s just something bouncy and fun about it.

I would love to have a bouncy and fun 44. I’m not entirely sure what that would look like, but I think it’s something to work for. Maybe.

I admit to being off to a rough start. I had Covid for Christmas and I spent New Year’s Eve/Day blowing my nose. An unfortunate incident involving one of the cats and a glass of wine has slowly made the laptop I bought at the beginning of last year unusable. So, at the beginning of this year I bought yet another new laptop in a fit of frustration and now we all need to cross our fingers that this pretty shiny lasts longer than its predecessor. Trust me, neither I nor my credit card are thrilled with this turn of events, but I gotta do what I gotta do to stay in business.

So, yeah, I closed out 43 a lot harsher than I’d planned, which makes me cautious going into 44.

Good thing I’d already planned on taking baby steps.

This is part of The Remarkable Life Deck work I started last year when I turned 43. It’s a 10 year plan after all, and surprisingly I haven’t gotten bored and wandered off, so here I am at 44 still working on it. Last year, I spent a good chunk of time off and on working through the deck and and answering the questions as honestly as possible. Towards the end of the year, I looked at everything I wrote down and came up with a few baby steps I could take to work my way towards the ideals I’d detailed in the journal.

My idea for 44 is to make it a year of baby steps. Every month, I will take conscious baby steps toward my ultimate goals. I have no idea if this is exactly how you’re supposed to use the deck. The way Debbie Millman describes it is that when she did this, she found things happening as if by magic. I get how manifestation and visualization work, but I also believe that those things don’t happen unless you do things to signal to the Universe that you want them and that you’re ready for them.

These will be my signals. Big ol’ flairs sent up on a monthly basis. I think that’s reasonable. And I don’t think it has to be a drag. It sounds very dry and boring, like doing chores, but I don’t think that it has to be or that it will be. After all, the point of this is to work my way into the life that I want. That’s not dull. There’s joy in that. So, naturally there will be joy in the baby steps.

Maybe it’ll be how I make 44 fun and bouncy after all.

Once again I have defied the known Gods and Universe by continuing to exist for another year (she says as she writes this blog post before her birthday so it will post on time, duly noting that she’s inviting said known Gods and Universe to kick the chair right out from under her). 43 is a funky age. It’s a funky number. Not entirely sure how I feel about it, yet, but I figure that if it’s funky, then I should be funky, too.

I’ve finally decided that I should probably do something with my life. I mean, if I’m going to continue to exist on this mortal plane, I might as well. Gotta do something to kill the boredom and keep shit interesting.

To that end I asked for and received The Remarkable Life Deck: A Ten-Year Plan for Achieving Your Dreams by Debbie Millman for Christmas. See, I know nothing about getting my life together or being a somewhat functioning adult or really even what I specifically want for my life. This is supposed to help me do that. Which is good. I need all the help I can get.

It’s basically a deck of cards that asks you questions about your life ten years from now. What does it look like, where do you live, what are your relationships like, what is your career like, etc. The idea is that you go through and answer each card as thoroughly and honestly as possible. Dream big and write those dreams down. By doing this, you actively put those answers and ideas in your brain pan, which encourages you to live and work towards them. I’ve been answering the questions since I got the deck at Christmas and I’ve found that for most part, it’s not much trouble. I live 90% of my life in my head anyway.

What is a little surprising is how totally unhindered I am about writing all of it down. I am completely undeterred by the prospect that this might not work. Maybe it’s because I know me and know my potential for failure. Maybe I’m not actually too invested with the outcome, but more the process. Who knows? I’m having fun with this. No harm in that.

I have to admit that things are weird for me lately. I’m going into this new age much more upbeat and much lighter than usual. Dare I say I’m optimistic? For what, I don’t know. Maybe I left my last fuck in 2022 and now completely unburdened, I’m able to skip through life rather than trudge. Will that last? Will I biff it and fall? Will my mental illnesses tidal wave me when I least expect it? I don’t know. But I’m not going to worry about it in the meantime. I’m just going to enjoy this feeling as long as it lasts.

Like I said, 43 feels like a funky number and a funky age.

I’m looking forward to getting funky.

The past two years I’ve taken the week of my birthday off. The whole week, plus Martin Luther King Jr Day. Comes to nine days off in the name of my birthday.

Some people may call this excessive. There are many loud folks who criticize people for celebrating their birthday week or birth month. And to them I bid a respectable fuck you. I spent too many years not celebrating my birthday, and not because I dreaded getting older like so many women.

Part of my not celebrating comes from having a birthday close enough to the holidays that people are fatigued of celebrations by the time they get to the anniversary of my birth. They are partied out. And I can relate. I’m usually at the end of my of my holiday rope by then, too. But still. It’s my birthday.

Another part comes from the fact that several of my “big” birthdays -sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one- were rendered insignificant for one reason or another. There were a couple of times that my birthday was used as an excuse to get together only to have that gathering have nothing to do with me. Clearly just an excuse…or worse, an after thought. This string of disappointments hurt. I’m not going to lie. To prevent myself from experiencing that disappointment again, I became one of those people who didn’t like my birthday.

My birthday? Pfft. No big deal. It’s nothing. Just another day. I didn’t do anything for my birthday outside of any sort of family celebration that might be happening. I rarely made plans. It got to a point where I didn’t expect anything, not even from myself.

However, I was not meant to be a person who hated their birthday. I have far too much ego for that. And over the years my intent to not celebrate became me celebrating for myself. It was my special day, even if it was a secret. Even if I was the only one who did any celebrating.

Sometimes I’d do things with my friends, but many times I was alone. Hell, for my 40th I ended up going by myself to see Knives Out. Coincidentally, that was the last time I went to a movie theater.

My 40th landed on a Sunday and I had planned to take the weekend off for it, but wasn’t able to.

I fixed that for 41. I took the whole week off and was gifted with the King holiday as a bonus. One of my coworkers asked me what I was doing for my birthday, thinking I was taking a trip. In the middle of a pandemic, not so much. So, I told her I was doing whatever I wanted. And I could tell that she thought a week off for my birthday was a bit much. Particularly for a lowly part-timer. Tough shit.

This year I had planned to take a trip for the week of 42, but it didn’t work out because we’re still in the middle of a pandemic.

But it was still my birthday.

So, last week, I was off work and I did whatever I wanted.

And I’ll do the same thing next year, too.

I’m kinda looking forward to being 42. First of all, I do not fear aging. It’s a privilege denied many and I’ve earned every year. Second of all, 42 is the meaning of life, the Universe, and everything, so it’s bound to be something of a magical age, right?

Okay, I kind of admit from this vantage point it’s sort of hard to see that potential.

41 was a bit of a bust.

I was hoping to do more and most of the time I barely had the energy to do the bare minimum. Like, I’ve been stuck in some ruts before, but this time I was too tired to care I was even in a rut. It’s hard to pull yourself out when you’d rather take a nap.

And while I did spent 41 giving fewer fucks, I didn’t really accomplish much else. At least I spent most of the time with either pink or blue-black hair. 41 was a bit of a drag, but I showed up.

As I said, I think 42 has the potential to be magical. What kind of magic? I don’t know. Maybe black magic. Perhaps some dark arts will be necessary to make something out of this year. I’m starting off on a sour note by not being able to take my birthday trip, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be taken eventually. Maybe all of the magic will come from finding a way to salvage things in the middle of trying circumstances once again. But the point is I should probably haul my ass out of the rut to give that magic a shot. Who knows? I might be surprised.

I mean, it’s doubtful. I’m a Capricorn, so my realism will ultimately win out. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find a way to have a good time. Even if it’s just a new hair color.

Here’s to 42.

Okay, so if you don’t count the pandemic and the political unrest, 40 actually wasn’t too bad. I’m sort of sad that it’s over since I really didn’t get to do much with it, though I did make some small personal progresses.

I’d like to do more of that for 41.

In some spiritual beliefs this is called stepping into your power. That’s what I want to do. Or do more of that, anyway. Cross off more things on the Big To Do List and give a few less fucks.

Look, if someone is going to continue to drop the ball at their job and keep letting me have birthdays, then I’m going to continue to find things to do to fill the time. And the older I get, the more I want to do other stuff, the stuff I didn’t think I could do when I was younger.

I’m feeling 41 is going to be a time for new things. I want to try new things, do new things. I realize that might be somewhat limited due to circumstances, but I’m sure I can work something out. It might be nothing more than learning to make a new recipe or learning a new craft, but it will be something shiny.

I think I’m also going to take some time during 41 to plan for 42. I never do anything big for my birthday. So, if everyone cools out for a minute and we get the pandemic under control, I’d like to take a trip for 42.

But, first 41.

Cheers to that.

Is turning 40 still a big deal? I guess for some people it is. I know I’m excited about it, which is kind of the wrong reaction. There’s still that stigma of 40 being old. It’s an age that women especially deny. I never quite understood that. I’ve earned every year.

It’s possible that because I never thought I’d live this long I am so chill with it. I figured that I’d do myself in at some point, either as the result of my depression or a fiery explosion of my own creation, most likely some sort of car accident because I’ve had far too many close calls. Or I insisted on petting something that I shouldn’t. That’ll probably be the way I go. Anyway. Getting to 40 seemed like an impossibility. I figured I’d biff it long before then.

But I didn’t and now I’m here. Granted, I’m not in the place I probably should be, not the one I want to be. I have failed at so much shit and have achieved none of the milestones I should have. And yet…I feel okay. I’m not depressed (and I’m usually clawing out of a winter depression during my birthday). I’m not down on what I haven’t done. I’m not bummed with getting older (honestly, I still feel 25…that’s probably part of my problem). I’m just kind of enjoying the moment.

A moment that I probably should have planned something super cool for to celebrate, but my long-term planning skills suck, so never mind.

Honestly, I’m rather looking forward to seeing what my forties brings. Since I haven’t done all of the things that I’m supposed to do, I won’t be doing the next things that I’m supposed to do. There’s an unplanned feel to it that I’m rather enjoying.

Here’s to hoping that it’s a good time.

Cheers.

I have once again completed a trip around the sun and once again I find myself looking around thinking, “Holy shit. I’m not dead yet. That’s wild. I probably should have planned this better.”

Since this is the last year of my thirties, I figure it to be a sort of a victory lap. I went into my thirties thinking that I’d have a good time and it’d be my decade. And though I did have a few good years, it was really hard in a lot of ways. I went through some shit. I’m actually looking forward to getting into my forties.

I suppose I should be disappointed. I’m 39 and I haven’t checked off a whole lot of things on society’s To Do List. Hell, I haven’t checked off a bunch of things on my own To Do List. I’m kind of a failure.

Oh, well. Too late to do anything about it now.

So this year I send off my thirties and prepare myself for my forties. I have no idea what that’s going to entail. Ideally, there will be more success than I’ve had. More fun. More good times with people I adore. Ideally, I’ll get to meet new people and see new places because ideally I’ll make more money and therefore be able to afford that. Maybe I’ll even get an idea of what I should do with my forties.

But for now I’ll leave it loose. No need to put high expectations on 39. After all, I haven’t really plotted anything so far. Why start now?

Should be a real swingin’ time.

I have successfully completed yet another trip around the sun. And it was pretty okay.

Last month, one of my cousins had a birthday and the upside down smiley face she used when she announced that she was twenty-four made me think that perhaps she didn’t dig the idea of being twenty-four. I don’t know. I’m barely literate in emoji.

Whatever her intended meaning, my interpretation of it got me thinking about how people tend to have those dreaded ages. For my roommate it was 40. For a lot of women, for some reason, it’s 40. For some, it’s 30. Mine was 13. I didn’t want to be 13 because that meant I wasn’t a kid anymore, I was a TEENAGER, and that just sounded like a fate worse than death to me. Because after teenager is adult, and who the hell wants to be that?

Not me and I’ve avoided it spectacularly.

I think I lucked out getting my dreaded age out of the way early. Now when other people are bemoaning their impending 50th or 25th or whatever, I’m turning 38 like, “Holy shit, how am I still alive? Someone should be fired for this.”

One thing I’ve noticed in my slide down the hill to 40 is that I’m loosening up some. Maybe it’s the meditations and affirmations I’ve been doing. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m getting beyond the age of expectations. It’s harder and harder for society to place expectations of certain achievements, attainments, and behaviors because I’m too old now. It’s too late. There’s no hope for me.

It’s the release of that pressure to live up to these arbitrary benchmarks that’s got me feeling loose. It’s not that I’m now going to abandon everything and become a useless lump. Some might argue that I already am one because I’ve always been one. No, it’s not giving up. It’s the shifting of focus from what society wants to me to be and achieve and the stress caused by the cognitive dissonance of that to what I actually want to be and achieve and the lack of stress from striving for that without any inner conflict.

Makes me feel pretty optimistic about 38.

I think it’s going to be some kind of chill.