32 suddenly sounds incredibly adult and somehow depressing.
Winter to me is “losing season.” Losing gloves, socks, that extra layer of clothing. There’s little order in my life anyway. This morning, I shut off the alarm, slept like a pig until 8 a.m., swam, and then hopped into a cab in a frenzy at 10 a.m. to arrive at work, at a very, very tardy 10:30. Lucky thing that I’m not at some widget factory and relegated to time cards. It got me thinking that, somehow, things are unraveling, and that I am paying a premium for these expensive magic pills that are about as useful as a pet rock.
Last night was all aggravation as the mystery man once again called last minute to ask me where I was, because he was at some party near my workplace. That set me boiling, because it would be nice to get notice, wouldn’t it, even if he’d rung, say, at 5 p.m.?
I think it gets me into a tizzy because I am so often the same way, last minute, fast changing, unpredictable, either too honest or too elusive to the point of being annoying. It got me thinking that somehow things needed to change.
Tomorrow is my birthday, the big 3-2. I remembered a friend once told me that at 3-2, things just somehow come together. But somehow, it hasn’t happened yet and 32 suddenly sounds incredibly adult and somehow depressing.