I’ve heard that the elderly don’t need a lot of sleep (they also eat like birds) so maybe that’s why I now go to bed at 12:30am and wake up nervous and exhausted at 5am instead of my usual 8:30am. You know, now that I’ve been 43 for just about as many hours.
I had thought I took a photo each birthday, usually sweaty because July, but that doesn’t seem to be the case or else I’m just so tired I’ve become unable to keyword search. (Also, don’t try to figure out how to migrate a new laptop when you’re hungover–I wasted hours yesterday and all of this morning trying to simply copy files to an external hard drive because my old computer is dying and slow and during all of these fits and starts malware took over. I also don’t have any of the original programs or a Netflix login so that’s sad that I can’t currently use Word or watch the rest of BoJack Horseman’s new season.)
Whatever, here is 43, free of editing. I think it’s fine. (I was Googling Restylane undereye fillers a few weeks ago, no shame.) And while I have been staunch about 45 kicking off middle age, 43 might actually count, I’ve decided. It doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure 43 is going to be a little better than 42 even though I prefer those tidy even numbers, and miles above 41, which was a useless year in the scheme of things. But there are no “doovers in life,” as my grandma once wrote in an email that confused me for ten seconds.
Sweatier, drunker, more animated, more 43.