I am not happy about my upcoming birthday. Odd, I thought, because I usually LIKE and enjoy my birthdays. I like the thought of having put another year behind me–the act of summarizing the year past and creating new goals go forward. To just think, “Cool, today’s my birthday.”
But not this year. It first began when I sensed my face was sagging JUST a touch. Not noticeable at all, to be honest, but just enough–and very marked if I were to, let’s say, browse through old photos taken when I was in my early twenties. Hypothetically. And see how I have aged. Hrm. Hypothetically aged. Hrm. Older. Hrm.
And then there are some personal things going on that have exacerbated this whole growing another year older thing, the feeling I’m going OVER THE CLIFF.
They say at age 35, your fertility, for instance, drops over a cliff. When you’re pregnant, post-35, they put stickers ALL OVER YOUR FOLDER stating you’re “over 35” as if it is some horrific territory. It seems arbitrary, but medicine claims it is NOT arbitrary.
So I’m not happy with turning 35 at all. For more than a few reasons.