I have sort of been dreading tomorrow all year. Today is my last day being on the correct side of the thirty-divide. Tomorrow, I will be 35-years-old.
Every once in a while this year, the fact that I was almost 35 would float into my mind. It was the age you always read about in books in regards to fertility. The age where fertility falls off the cliff, where chromosomal abnormalities go up, where miscarriage rates increase. On one hand, it feels really silly to look at 35 as this big, flashing red number when you had high FSH at 27 and implantation issues. But just as I can't dismiss the half hour after eating in regards to swimming or the eight hours in regards to sleep or the five-second-rule, I can't erase that this number is also ingrained in my head as a warning, a threshold, a no-going-back point.
Okay, so good things that happened this year: the twins started school and I survived (oh, and they survived too). I finished writing Navigating the Land of If and it came out. I wrote my first chicklit book. I finally got to see Smith Island after being in love with it for many years. I continued to be mushy-in-love with Josh. I went to BlogHer, my first conference ever. And I aged one more year and I aged one more year and I aged one more year, and while that may not seem like a large accomplishment, we are all too keenly aware of the alternative. So a year should be celebrated.
I was about to list sad things that happened this year, but fuck that. Not every post needs to be symmetrical. It's my birthday tomorrow. Let's celebrate instead.