Aging

Today marks another year. I turned 37. I love that number. It's prime, and I'm a superstitious math nerd so it's kind of a big deal. Not only is it prime, it has the number seven. Frankly, I've been looking forward to this age for a long time and I'm nervous it's finally here. 

The thing is, my life at 37 looks nothing like I thought my life at 37 would look. I have no partner, I have no children. I own no real estate, though I'd be remiss not to mention I'm obsessed with my modest one-bedroom rental. I don't even have a full time job. I'm not one of those people who never wanted those things. Actually, I'm one of those people who always had a very precise plan to get them. But after fifteen years of climbing corporate ladders, working like crazy in tech, then business, paying my way through name-brand schools (I'm still paying my way through those schools, for the record), I pretty much abandoned it all to emote.

This past year I threw myself into my writing in a way that feels absurd for someone with my background, which is to say someone with absolutely no background or experience in writing up until recently. Sometimes I wonder if this is all a form of self-sabotage; removing myself from the workforce right when I'm reaching the "top." It would be in character. But the reality is, I'm just finally learning to trust myself. It's insane how hard that is in a world that's so eager to push you in certain directions. I'm still not great at it. Everyday I question what I'm doing, have minor heart palpitations about whether I should go back to a steady income. But I've also never been happier. Not that I'm blissful--please; still a walking existential crisis. But that's my steady state--my situational set point, a friend wiser than me recently called it--and at least now I have the space to lean into that. So, in a way, I'm as blissful as I can imagine being, and that feels good enough. 

I broke my foot in December, a bad break, something called a Jones Fracture. Only recently have I been able to walk, and only a little. Not being able to move for three months is my own personal strain of torture. Running gives me life, it's how I get energy and work through my thoughts. But my addiction to it has also caused a lot of pain in my life--physically and emotionally. Usually on my birthday, I go for a long 10+ mile run. This year, it had to be a walk, and of course it had to be shorter. I walked in Prospect Park for hours, blasting sappy music, as one does. And, strangely, it was perfect. Just what I needed. It felt weirdly symbolic. Sometimes listening to yourself is better than pushing yourself; who knew?

I've published a few essays this year that I'm particularly proud of. This piece on how the internet and raunch culture influenced subtle generational differences in the #metoo debate is maybe my favorite essay I've ever written and something I think about constantly. I also wrote about how the question of whether or not one wants children isn't a binary one. And this essay about my breakup with online dating was originally in my book proposal but my book is not selling (see, everything's not roses) so I published it on Medium, instead. I'm also really proud that my mentor of sorts, the writer I most admire (linked above), tweeted and loved all of these. It's the little things that make a big difference. Oh, and I did my first interview, with the author of the new book Coders. It was a blast.

What I'm trying to say is that aging isn't that bad. Truthfully, I like myself a little more each year. For example, I'm sure I'll look back next year, or maybe even tomorrow, and laugh at how silly this note was. And I look forward to it.

x,
Em