I look older. I can see it. I find hair that’s not bleached by the sun but definitely white. I lost my baby fat and a bit of my innocence, which translates into “shit, I look bitchy!”
It’s a trade off because meanwhile, I gained experience and insights. At 35, I know what makes me happy—this is pretty cool, it’s like finding your G spot for life. So when life is made of compromises and occasional disappointments, I’m not wandering around hoping to find something I like, something I’m good at, something rewarding, a meaning to all of this.
I kind of know what I’m doing.
I kind of know what I’m looking for.
I’m kind of hoping to find it.
Now I can ask myself the real questions:
- Is it okay to live in jeans/ t-shirts and shorts/ tank tops at 35?
- Can I just give up on trying to apply eyeliner?
- Does it matter if there are many Internet memes I really don’t get?
- Should I be ashamed of the fact I’m seen wearing the exact same clothes years apart on pictures?
I’ll report back with answers next year.