This is Thirty-Five

H&M sweater
Sezane jeans
Jimmy Choo mules
Stella & Dot ring
Catherine Popesco earrings (similar)
Dior by Mats Gustafson book
Location: Osborne Village – Winnipeg, Manitoba

Like so many things this year, I did not celebrate turning thirty-five the way I planned. I wasn’t expecting anything too exciting in the way of festivitiess during a pandemic – certainly nothing like my thirty-fourth birthday in Athens last year. But we’d planned a nice dinner at home, with a bottle of rose that I’d saved from last year’s trip specifically for the occasion.

…and then, when the day I turned thirty-five actually came, I found myself ten days post-surgery, feeling shockingly well all things considered but definitely far from in party mode.

This year has, without a doubt, been a very long lesson in learning to let go of plans and expectations, two things that I tend to hold onto more tightly the more they seem to be slipping away. I didn’t make any big plans to celebrate turning thirty-five, but the small plans I did make still didn’t come to fruition. The bottle of rose remains in the cupboard, unopened. And we ordered in brunch rather than going for dinner, because I’m more energetic in the mornings. (Also because, let’s be real, we aren’t rushing to spend time in restaurants that Ian doesn’t work at right now. Code orange and all.) Surprisingly, I made peace with that relatively quickly.

So maybe thirty-five is that year that I finally let go of my perfectionism, because it is so painfully obvious in a world where what is possible and what isn’t possible changes daily that it serves no purpose. Or maybe it isn’t. I’ve adapted and adjusted repeatedly in the past six months. We all have. But my fondest wish remains to be able to return to my life as it was before. That’s the wish I made when I blew out my single birthday candle this year.

I’m divulging that because I’m not superstitious, but also because I know the wish won’t come true. There is no going backward. Our collective experiences this year, and possibly next, will change us all. And even if our lives once again begin to resemble the ones we used to lead, we ourselves will not be the same. Which means our normal won’t be, either – because how we define normalcy is largely a question of perspective.

This is thirty-five. I started this year with a very different body, in a very unusual set of circumstances. (I love the body, by the way, in case you were wondering. The pleasure I got from wearing a striped sweater for the very l0w-key celebrations was immeasureable. But more on that another day.) And I have absolutely no idea where I might end it. For someone who loves nothing more than making lists and writing out elaborate agendas for future adventures, the feeling is, admittedly, a bit uncomfortable. But we don’t grow when we’re comfortable.  And while thirty-five can’t be a year of adventures for me, or a year of new experiences, it can be a year of growth.

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