35

THIS.

YEAR.

Honestly, not a lot has changed, but it feels like everything has changed. I picked up an extra job, and developed abnormal changes in my routine PAP smear, and started taking Escitalopram. That alone feels like such a huge and monumental shift. And that was just in like, the last two months!

I’m actually glad that I’ve been too busy to sit down and properly write a blog post about turning 35. It’s a little overwhelming. It’s a BIG YEAR, it’s divisible by 5 … and 7. So people ake a bigger deal out of those than the ones that are just divisible by, say, 2 or 4. Not as big as the years where you become divisible by 10, but like, aaaaaalmost.

I’m old enough to run for president now! And honestly, fuck it, there aren’t enough Democrats in the 2020 race already! KIDDING! But you’d vote for me, wouldn’t you?

Strangely, I feel oddly settled into 35. I’ve been telling people: I’M THIRTY-FIVE! for months now. Basically, since I turned 34. Both to acclimate myself to the landmark birthday, and to disarm them when they see my overalls and bows in my hair and assume I’m like, twelve. I LIKE BOWS! SHEESH!

I’ve found ways to make my “adult” status fit my lifestyle. I put more shelves into my room. I bought a jewelry organizer. I’ve really found ways to optimize my living space, time, and personal philosophy, to fit my current existence and my aspirations. I’m really digging it. I feel inspired to improve. I’m in therapy again, and after a rough start, it’s been really great! My plants are thriving. I feel good to be turning 35. I want nothing more at 35. I’m so content.