It feels like one of those momentous birthdays I have to celebrate with a bang. An age that’s round and cleanly divisible by a prime number.

“Not old. Not young. But a viable die-able age.”

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

By this time, I could have…

  • Written a timeless novella (R.L. Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde);
  • Invented contact lens (Frederic William Herschel, an English astronomer);
  • Won an Olympic gold medal (Evelyn Ashford, an American sprinter considered old (!) for her sport);
  • Developed a gas law in the field of chemistry (Amedeo Avogadro, author of Avogadro’s hypothesis); or
  • Been raising tweens (my mom).

While the Me of a decade ago might have felt mild anxiety with this list, the Me of today feels a bit more mellowed out (in a “The Dude abides” sort of way). The FOMO resurfaces from time to time, but now there are more things that leave me permanently unimpressed. Things I used to consider as “shoulds” – for career, for family, for myself – aren’t really as necessary as I thought they were.

I feel the years wash over me and realise I’m okay. I want to spend my time working on what I want to do, what keeps me in a sense of flow. I’m happy to just be.

By the way, I’m also at the age when Julia Child began to learn to cook.

So, you know – we’re either at our peak, or just getting started.

Think critically dear readers,

Featured image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash