37. 37. Hmmmm….
Ok, after thinking it over for a bit, I’ve come to the conclusion that 37 doesn’t feel so bad. After all, it’s still only my age and not my waist size. That’s pretty good, right?
30 came as a bit of a shock. It was quite a wrench leaving the youth and innocence of 20 behind. 30 seemed quite over the hill; almost old. But, strangely enough, it was all about anticipation. When I woke up the day after turning 30, nothing was different. It didn’t seem to be such a momentous thing after all. I was still me, still learning, still shaky, still a teenager in my mind. I hadn’t suddenly, overnight, turned into a stand-on-my-own-two-feet kind of person.
30 was certainly a wake-up call. It looked like a deadline for getting all sorts of things done. Or at least started. So the run up to 30 worried me quite a bit. But it was good, because I began to actually work on the things I really wanted. 30-35 were my “go get it” years. I went on the journey that would become my first book. I had my two kids, against all odds. I started a certificate course in archaeology. I drove a 150 cc motorcycle for almost 10,000 km. I learnt a bit of German. I left work and I went back to work.
So 30 was the time when realized that I had to I yank my life off the track it had been sauntering along for far too long, and pull, push, and heave it on to the track I wanted it to be on.
From that perspective, 37 looks good. I don’t feel life is passing me by. I don’t feel I’m not working on the things I want to be working on. I don’t feel so young and unsure any more (which is good) and I don’t feel old, yet (which is even better). I’ve got most of the things in my life arranged the way I want them and I am now in a place where I can afford to sit back and enjoy the ride for a bit.
What could be better than that?