So, somewhere around here I turned 35. Actually, it was a week ago now, but the way this winter has gone, maybe I should be proud to be only a week behind. I’m also a week behind on the traditional turning-35 celebration, watching Company by yourself. (OK, maybe that’s not traditional for my generation, but the mid-2000s revival has the double bonus of being both incredible and on Netflix.)
This year has been strange and polarized. The first three-quarters of it was great and fun and productive, and then somewhere around the beginning of December I ran headlong into a wall. I’ve spent the winter building a bridge in front of me and hoping I can build faster than I’m moving. It’s reminiscent of 2007, although not as frantic, and hopefully not lasting as long. I have some hope that spring will end it, presuming it ever comes.
At the beginning of the year I got writing back, and at the end I’ve lost it again. The first nine months of the year were full of photographs, and lately I wouldn’t manage to take the camera out of the house if it weren’t for the baby tapir. I haven’t been able to keep up on much of anything lately, falling off more as the winter goes on. I really hate having a late-winter birthday, because by the time I get here I’ve often lost the last vestiges of optimism. Looking back at what I’ve done this year, some of it has been really good; but I can’t really access the experience, emotionally, from here at the end of
all things February. It’s easier to think of what I haven’t done.
Which is also kind of Bobby’s problem. All he thinks about is what he doesn’t have. And I think I’m going to do my best to spend 35 learning not to be Bobby.