I have a complicated relationship with aging. When I was a child, precocious and unreasonable, I was much older than the years biologically assigned to me. Given the vagaries of my troubled childhood, this comes as less than a surprise to most who meet me.

Now, in my “adulthood” I regularly find I’m the youngest person in a room. My best friend, the same age as I (or perhaps younger, I can never quite remember) is emotionally so much older than I that in some ways seeing her next to me is like picturing a 30 year old next to a teenager. (I envy that she has her shit that together…I certainly don’t.)

This meandering is a long way of getting to the fact that I’m celebrating my birthday today. (Hence the pot noodle ruminations of a day or two ago.) I’m conflcited as to whether or not I’m enjoying being older, but the birthday itself can’t be knocked.


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