This week I celebrated my birthday, or I should actually say, I tried to avoid celebrating it. I don't know exactly what it was about turning 35 that really depressed me, but it got me good. Maybe it was the chipper young gal at work who exclaimed "Oh! You're now AMA (advanced maternal age)!" I almost punched her. Almost. Maybe it's the life filled with turmoil and change that makes getting older more depressing, or maybe it was that I spent the weekend in New York with my best friend having a wonderful time talking about crown molding and falling asleep at 10:30 (which was a really awesome weekend, I am just very aware that it is a new phase for those of us who have always torn the town up). All of these things are fine, but on the actual day together they felt like a ton of bricks smashing me in the face.
Everyone I know who is older than 35, of course, is very busy telling me how young I am. Well, sure, that's easy for you to say, but the reality is that this is the youngest I'll ever be again, right this second, and man that shit's scary. Also I'm rolling into 35 newly single after a long time, with a plate full of responsibilities and a strong desire to run away and hide my head in the sand. Good times all around. On the upside I know that I have an unusual amount of amazing people in my life, and I am probably one of the luckiest people alive in that respect. I also am blessed to have a job I love, and kids who rock, so it's really not so bad. I'm just hoping that next year I get my birthday mojo back and can celebrate in true Kate fashion. 36, nothing scary about that!