A miniature mid(?)life crisis.

As I was laying in bed last night listening to the ocean...

HAHAHA. Wouldn't that be great?

No, but really. It was the "ocean." According to my alarm clock's "sleep aid" function.

Anyway...

As I was listening to the "ocean," I realized I was 31. Age has never bothered me. I was pumped to turn thirty. Thirty-one wasn't nearly as exciting, but whatever. I still feel 9, so, it is what it is. But earlier, in a completely unrelated conversation with mom, she mentioned that having kids at 32 is "what people do." It's normal. To which I agree. It's not abnormal to have multiple children at 32 years old. One of my best friends just turned 31 and has three. 

Then she referred to 32 as middle-aged. That's just one year older than me.

AND THAT'S WHEN I DIED. Died, dead. I'm not kidding, my heart dropped into my stomach. I hung up the phone, and no lie, I had a miniature panic attack. It had to be because I could feel it. It felt like there were bubbles in my chest. In my heart. Everything was uncomfortably fluttery, and I sort of wanted to throw up. MIDDLE-AGED.

There I lie, in bed with a stuffed unicorn, alone, cats at my feet, nothing to show for myself, AND I AM MIDDLE-FUCKING-AGED. I almost cried, I really did. Am I in the middle of my life? I am, aren't I? I mean, in another 31 years I'll be 62. What do I have then? Maybe another 10? 15 years? (Oh gross, that's a horrible thought, stop it). I am HALFWAY through life and am probably the largest disappointment there is. Other than, you know, I have a career and I love it and I'm happy and whatever. But also: I'm divorced. I failed at marriage once when I was too young and stupid to know what I was doing. I fail at relationships because I'm (no longer too young and) too stupid to know what I'm doing. I'm "supposed" to have, like, two children attached to my boob and pissing me off and making me "whole." Instead I have cats, unattached to my boob. Thank god.

The thing is, these things never bother me. They've never really bothered me. Thirty-one doesn't feel "old" to me. I don't feel old. But, I guess, realistically, I am. And it sort of pisses me off that I have to panic about these things. Can't I just get there when I get there? Without society on my back making me feel useless? Yeah. I get it. By the time I have children I'll be a member of AARP by the time they're in third grade. But so what? LET ME. I KNOW. GO AWAY.

I seriously want to stomp and scream and pull out my hair like a child. But I'm not a child, remember? DON'T FORGET THAT, IT'S VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION. But if I feel youthful and happy and alive, can't I just be it? What is it they say? You're only as old as you feel?

Then shove it. I'm 9 years old. Talk to me about this shit in about 15.