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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.

Or not.

Ottawa, March 20, 2018
Ottawa, March 20, 2018
Ottawa, March 20, 2018

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