It struck me the other day that there’s not a lot to be said about being 34. It’s a nondescript age planted solidly in mid-thirties ambiguity.
College feels like it was a lifetime ago, but I still like to have dance parties and shop in the junior’s section at Marshall’s.
I have life insurance and a will (F…a will?), and most of the same insecurities I did at 14.
I have friends getting married and friends getting divorced. Friends having babies and friends having an awful time with infertility.
I worry about climate change and societal unrest and also my pores and the onset of gray hair.
I listen to the same explicit hip hop I did in 1998, sandwiched between podcasts about religion and the gender pay gap.
I catch myself full of judgmental opinions when I see teenagers wearing revealing clothes, overlooking the fact that teenage me did the exact. same. thing.
I went to a rock concert this weekend. I wore ripped jeans. And when it was over, my back ached from standing all night. I drove home singing at the top of my lungs with two empty car seats as an audience.
It’s a comical juxtaposition to feel so young and so old. And it’s not that I actually feel old (despite the dreadful noises my hips make when I sit cross-legged), but a lot of life and living has happened, providing a vantage point where the past and the future are equally lovely and blurry.
34 isn’t bad. It’s just fine. A bit remarkable and sort of awkward and I’ll take it.