36 here.

In the darkness of the night another age approaches. Last year was supposed to be the year when I felt the pangs of getting old, I guess. The ruling feeling of my 35^th year was a general sensation of everything being simply overwhelming. And this coming from a woman who doesn’t work, doesn’t have stress, doesn’t really have deep moving revelations or anything. Yet it seemed to go by so fast. Call me shallow.

I watch these sitcoms and dramas on TV and the messages I get from each episode depends on what kind of a mood I am in that particular day, more often that particular hour. An overwhelmingly happy year was my 35^th. Even in episodes where catalytic stuff happened, I thanked god or whatever for everything I had, for my children, for my life and felt reassured that I was doing well, doing my best at least and that I was at peace with myself. The uneasiness the feeling of not belonging the insecurities the craving for something I have not gotten my finger on seemed to diminish every passing day though not completely disappearing I am, once again, or seem, at peace with them.

So happy 36 to me. Two decades ago, when I was in a far far country, celebrating my 16^th, in a strange unknown yet exciting tradition I felt it was just the beginning of “something.” If I were to go back and grant myself something, a wish, I would have wished that I carry that same excitement till I was 96. Still going strong at 36, though in a less festive mood, by large because my beloved isn’t here with me to celebrate, but we’ll make up for that when he gets back in a few days.

So for next year, I promise myself to go back to singing (even though I might suck at it). And play more. Mostly with my children, and a bit with life.