Just for today, it's OK to feel much younger than my age. My higher power has blessed me with young women who look up to me as if I were an older sister. Little do they know how much more functional their lives are than mine and that while they think they are asking me for advice and getting good advice, I am secretly garnering words of wisdom from them. While I am technically getting older, it seems that I finally feel young. I remember when I was 19, I felt like an old lady and I looked at 18-year-olds like they were a fresh young crop. Now at 31, I finally feel 19. Unfortunately, I act like I'm 19. However, I am where I am, and just for today I don't have to have shame about feeling so much younger than 31.

Since the liabilities of aging are painfully obvious and frequently noted, I would like to focus on the positive side of getting older. I guess when people are young, they feel compelled to do and say what I would call (from my own experience) some pretty dumbass things. The blessings of getting older and being more conscious is that I don't have to do these things in this lifetime and, God willing, in the lifetimes to come.

The following is a list of things I never have to do again (thank God!).

1) Wear ridiculous shoes that destroy my feet, cost exorbitant sums of money, and put me in physical danger when crossing the street or even just standing.
2) Wake up at 6:45 to wash, blow, curl and (yes, we're talkin' early 80's) spray my hair.
3) Steal candy and make-up from Long's drug store.
4) Apologize for being smart, clever, or just myself (especially on dates).
5) Put groceries on a credit card because I spent my cash on lethal Charles David pumps.
6) Feel sorry for people who are assholes to me because they clearly had bad childhoods to behave that way (and, consequently, forget to feel sorry for myself for clearly having a bad childhood that keeps me feeling sorry for people who are assholes to me).
7) Hang out in bad relationships for what feels like eons multiplied by light years.
8) People worship.
9) Compare and despair (though, I'm hard pressed to totally give this up).
10) Drink vanilla extract for the alcohol content (my friend puked).
11) See if I can squeeze my car into a tight spot between two expensive SUVs in front of a crowd.
12) Eat another Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie.
13) Have bad sex (if it's not riveting, I'd rather have ice cream).

This list is only just beginning.

Just for today, I'm cool with aging.

I just read somewhere that it's "disturbing for women to hold onto the dewey beauty of their early 20's"....hmmm, I had not thought of that time of my life as a period of high-ranking beauty, quite frankly. Unless you consider bad eyebrows, weird fashion sense, and a general disconnection from most forms of joy, attractive. Sure, some young angry men and creepy older men, apparently, did. Ok, so maybe it was the dewey skin that framed my deer-in-the-headlights-I-have-no-clue-whatsoever exression (though, truth be told, my skin has always been kind of dry). I just wouldn't get too nostalgic about a time when I had a negative emotional IQ and was impressed by guys who openly admitted to loving porn and hating their mothers in equal measure (though, let's face it, where would the porn industry be without guys who hated their mothers?). Am I missing something? Cuz all I have to say is thank God for time passing. The only thing I'm holding onto from my early twenties is a dresser that I bought at a yard sale and that conveniently fits in my closet, my Thelma n' Louise poster, and my first garbage can (which has to be symbolic of something...though, what, I don't know.)

Just for today, I am grateful to be older.

I had dinner with two friends last night. They were talking about their jobs and careers and they seemed like real grown ups and everything! For a moment, I felt like I was ten and out to dinner with my parents and their friends. I almost asked one of them, "Can I order another Coke? Pleeeze?!" But I realized that I'm a 32-year-old self-supporting woman and don't have to ask anyone whether or not I want to order a damn soft drink (though, I'm trying to cut down on the carbs, so my own "inner-parent" kicked in and dampened my childish spirit...just like old times).

I was also trying to listen to the news more because that's what (I hear) adults do. Yesterday, I listened to reports about children being blown up half-way around the world and I took it all in stoic sadness and said things like, "that's so awful...hey, can I get into your iTunes?" How desensitizing myself to violence against children is helping myself, the world, or anyone, is lost on me...

Just for today, I am allowed to struggle with being a grown-up.

My student worker had a question, but I had to tell her, "WAIT! I'm searching the Internet to find out what year Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" came out! So, hold your horses cuz I'm busy!" Well, as it turns out, it wasn't 1983 like my co-worker Thomas thought, but 1981 like I thought (because I knew I was still in the single digits when I used to watch feather haired teenagers blasting it from their cars)...which means, I'm not THAT OLD!

This all came about because another student worker is named Jessie. Thomas and I like to sing tunes that go with the words we use in conversation. For instance, Thomas will say something like, "Would you like me to install the latest version of Dreamweaver?" and I'll respond with "Dreeeeeam-weeever, I can get you through the niiiiiiiight!" Ok, so it's funnier in real life. The point is that we asked Jessie if everyone sang "Jessie's Girl" to him and he was like, "No, I've never heard of that song before." Which made us feel not just really fucking old, but also really dated. But it turns out that I'm not that old, because I was only 9 when it came out and not 17. It's not like he hadn't heard of the Beastie Boys or something.

Just for today, it's OK that twenty-year olds haven't heard of songs that I heard when I was nine...must...not...panic...yet.

On depressed winter days I like to huddle in my apartment and aimlessly find odd things to do, like read my diary from when I was 22 (which I'm sworn to burn along with the rest of my journals filled with embarrasing teenage scribe...) I mean, I know it's destroying what would surely be described as pages of riveting literary fare. For instance, in several passages I ponder profound questions on the nature of young male motives, like "why doesn't he call me?" Or I discuss the effects of stimulants on the human body..."boy, I drank a lot last night and I sure am hung over." Surely, when I'm famous, biographers are going to want to save these gems. There are also some fascinating unique chronicles of my escapades which (fancy this) involve alcohol and wacky escapades (in college too), like stealing food from the dining hall pantry, and climbing fences to get back in the dorms...I bet we were the only ones.

It's not to say that it wasn't fun. It just, in hindsight, wasn't always original.

I'm going to read what I haven't read before once so as to fully digest the nature of my own teen angst, and then go back to my thirty-something depressions (which is far more sophisticated and original).

Just for today, I can let go of the past.

I just spent the last hour getting relationship advice from a sophomore in college whose maturity vastly outshines what I hope to have when I'm 65 (assuming I live that long). She said things like, "He needs to figure things out on his own," and "He's not ready for a commitment at this point in his life..." What? People have points in their lives? You mean life isn't a straight line of chronic frustration between birth and death? I remember being 20 and being way smarter than older people...I don't know what happened when I hit 30? It's like I became permanently 13.

I had to clam my mouth shut when she said that she was tired of being his mother because something like, "...well, get used to men, kiddo," was fighting it's way into the world. But she's too young for that kind of cyncism...in fact, so am I.

Just for today, I can learn from the oh, very young.

I had breakfast with a very old and dear friend yesterday. We used to buy cigarettes from this obscene liquor store when we were 12 (that's why they were obscene) and that was only the tip of the iceberg...By most accounts she was crazier than me, but that's really a matter of perspective. In the end, we both smoked pot with random stray high school kids who had nothing better to do than to get 13 year olds high. We both cut school to make out with boys who would soon be behind bars (or really should have been). And we are both guilty of ripping off Bill's drugs from a sizeable amount of Wet n' Wild lipstick, Aqua Net, and Laffy Taffy. Just because she got busted by the police while I and two boys (one of whom, believe it or not, is now her husband) waited around the block for her, is no reason for me to feel absolved of the hormonal insanity that was my adolescence. In the end, you could burn down a house with the amount of gel and hair spray that held up our hair up like cement foundation.

TWENTY YEARS LATER...we are inside a kitchen in the latter stages of renovation, discussing the third trimester of her pregnancy and the miracle of life.

I think Bob Dylan said it best...(just for today) things have changed!

I went out to a birthday dinner party on Friday night for my friend who was turning 40. As it turns out, the entire party was over forty, except for me. In the face of a minor personal crisis, it was nice to know that at least I have seven years to go till I have to contend with that trauma. Only one of the five women at the party was married and a mother. She sort of bummed us out with her talk about how she has no time to be creative, which was a giant buzzkill to any remaining fantasies I might have about the state of Married Motherhood. That and the fact that my belief in romantic love was recently decimated, I'm starting to get really cozy and comfortable in the prospect of living an eternity in the state of single childlessness (sans the cats...cuz that's when it gets depressing). Strangely, it seems like the older I get the less friends I have who mope around about being single and childless. Maybe it's because we all have at least one Stressed Out Married Mother in our lives. They're great for a solid reality check when you start to worry that the hole in your soul could be filled by a baby. No, you still have that hole, it's hearkening is just muffled by the cries of your child...

Just for today, I am content with my single life.

As a peer out into my mid-30's, I'm pondering the various paths to beauty that have been trailblazed by those who've come before me. (Please Note: At 33, I don't think I'm old...so don't get all irate if you don't think that's old. If you do think I'm over the hill, that's fine, I probably am).

On one side, there's the High Maintenance Botox Road (which I know of only in theory because I'm not so scrutinizing that I can even tell when a woman has received this treatment) which I characterize by the willingness to put lots of money and time into holding up someone's idea of a beauty standard. I do identify a class of women who don't look wrinkled, but who don't look young either, and I can only assume that they have had "work" done. ("High Maintenance" also brings to mind big purses.... I went shopping for a purse a few weeks ago and it was like being in an SUV lot of hand bags...they were HUGE, with lots of pockets). On the other side of the spectrum there's the Au Natural Road, which just says "f--- it" and kind of surrenders the whole idea of desirability and attractiveness. I have always shunned this path and judged these women as lazy and difficult. I think they terrified me with their utter lack of regard for the mandates of this super-model culture. But lately I've been contemplating this path (although please don't hold me to it because I know that the pressure in this youth-oriented super-model culture can be soul-crushing and I don't blame any woman for going to great lengths to preserve her looks).

It's not that I don't care what I look like, but the little I do to achieve some semblance of glamour is just getting to feel like too much of a damn chore already. Eyebrows, hair, nails...if this gets worse, if aging means that I start piling on more stuff (skin abrasian treatments, botox, etc.), I'm going to need a full day out of every week just for beauty maitenance (not to mention an extra $20,000 a year).

It all looked good on Carrie Bradshaw (the hair, the clothes, the great body), but she had Pat Field dressing her up and a team of make-up and hair people, and a personal trainer.

I know there's a middle-ground somewhere. A way of living that embraces my natural beauty, my inner beauty, and makes room for a little help from my friends at the Prescriptives counter (I am, by the way, going to a Mary Kay gathering this weekend...I like the Pink Cadillac). I just don't know what it is.

Just for today, I can analyze the cost of beauty in this scary world.

I'm approaching the age after which all cool people have died (Jesus Christ, Eva Peron...and we're not even talking about rock stars here). One more week till I'll be 34. I'm officially boring.

I spent $65 on skin/beauty products this month (which, for me, is a lot) and I can't help putting them on and looking in the mirror and thinking, "Are they working?!" I don't know why I keep thinking that I'm going to arrive at some zenith where I suddenly won't need to get my roots done or worry about my laugh lines. At least exercise makes me feel good. The maintenance of that ever receding youthful glow is endless and doesn't seem to release endorphines. AND it's exacerbated by the not-so-subtle nudging of the truth that it's only going to get worse. At some point in time, I may wake up to find my face mushed together in the morning and it'll never go back to normal (at least without surgery...I still don't think I'll do it).

Am I cranky, or what?! Ask me tomorrow and I'll tell you that being 34 rocks. Tonight I'm going to put on some eye gel.

Just for today, I can spend money on maintenance.

When I was a little kid I remember thinking that the adults in my life were weird (to say the least). Some of the women (like my father's girlfriends) were concerned with things like whether a man (my father) was focusing on them (in my childhood wisdom I could clearly see the futility of this pursuit) or how the table looked with dishes and silverwar. And the men seemed spaced out, like they were living in another time.

Flash forward to today, I seem to be becoming everything I once questioned and deemed sad and bizarre. I obsess about how guacamole is presented (I just got a new dip tray from Targae...horay!) and I worry that my relationship status makes me some kind of social outcast (which it does...I don't seem to know any couples). I want popularity and prestige like every other boring person in America (snore) and I've internalized the worst of American values to the point where I'm becoming a Sex and the City wannabe (which is not to say that I'm not Single and Fabulous...I mean, come on). Still, it's dissappointing to realize that life is dissappointing at times and like some flimsy Gatsby-esque parable without any of the great metaphors...

Just for today, I feel like an adult.

I'm hung over from chocolate birthday cake (my office gave me a birthday party five days early...not sure why, I think they just wanted some cake) and the last 34 years of my life AND I still have five days to go before I enter a new age box. Looking forward to a life of greater confidence and wisdom (as well as more facials and less cake).

Just for today, I look forward to aging.

A lot of people have been congratulating me on turning 35 (as if it's an accomplishment to stay alive past 30...which it probably is). I think what they're really congratulating me on is how free I am with admitting my age. I've never gotten the whole idea of witholding this particular vital statistics (or really any that I can think of). When you have diarrhea of the thought process like I do, you really can't afford things like pride and prudence (I didn't mean to rhyme...but that really should be the title of my book). And then there's the fact that A) I'm a horrible liar and would trip over the first thread, let alone be able to function in a web of half-truths and evasions and B) I sucked at being young. I had the opposite of the attributes generally attached to youth. I had a grandma-ish perspective on going out at night, and only took risks if they would gurantee to result in heartache or bad credit.

Life is so much more manageable now...(which isn't really saying a lot).

Just for today, I am honest about my age.

I had a party last night and got my inner-Martha Stewart on. Well, that is if Martha Stewart bought pre-made items from Trader Joe's (which she might). Anyway, the planning felt so laborious (I did a lot of work to fix the ghetto-ish aspects of my apartment) that I wondered if it was even worth it (or if I'm worth celebrating). However, once everyone came, the love (and wine) flowed freely, and I had a great time feeling the abundance of friendship and generosity.

Despite the fact that I am seriously regressing (see blog below), I have to say that I have a far greater capacity to enjoy my life in my not-young years.

Just for today, I can age gracefully.

I'm up in the mountains with my family. Last night my dad and I went out with his friends who have known me since I was born. While I enjoy seeing them, I dread The Question that I inevitably get asked by my parents' friends. The wife portion of one of my dad's couple friends (at a certain point, they become a unit) did the honors:

"So, are you married, yet?!"

What am I supposed to answer? It's really a rhetorical question at this point.

I was ready to drown my loserishness in my turkey dinner when her husband suddenly opened up about the mating practices of their own children. Child born out of wedlock, divorce, and chronic bad choices...whew! I felt much better. These are my kind of people (not that I been divorced or have had children out of the institution of marriage...but hey, there's still time).

However, despite this respite of truth, the fact is that I feel a tremendous amount of pressure from Society (mom?) to have, at the very least, one of three things: husband, child, and/or property. I was considering the latter (it seems easier at this point), but got discouraged at the prospect of paying three times the amount of money I currently spend on rent for a place across the street from Target (my realtor tried to make this sound like a huge benefit by telling me about the fabulous end tables she found for half of what she was planning to spend...as if you have to convince me that Target is a temple to the Shopping Gods...doesn't mean I want to live there).

As my therapist would ask (because it's her job), WHAT DO I WANT?

One word.

Salsa.

Just for today, I can resist conforming to society's expectations.

Over the weekend I spent some time with some friends in their late 40's and early 50's. To my surprise, the conversation steered towards their frequent Botox and collagen injections. I don't know why, but despite living in Los Angeles, I am totally oblivious of this cultural phenomenon. I couldn't tell you who has had worked done, (unless they look like Michael Jackson), or who freezes their facial muscles. I just thought that older women tended to be more mature, able to take life in stride, and, therefore, less prone to strong emotional reactions. I've known people who respond stoically to life, but then again, now that I think about it, they were usually high...

It made me sad because these are both beautiful women, who would probably, if anything, look more gorgeous were they to let their faces follow the course of nature. Then again, I'm no one to judge, as I haven't reached the Botox age. In ten years, surrounded by unlined stoic faces, who knows how I'll feel...

Just for today, I want to age naturally.

There's nothing like pulling out a journal from high school to remind me that youth is wasted on the young. Tonight, I read, for the first time in years, the journal I kept between graduation from high school and the beginning college. For the most part, it's one big list of guys I had crushes on, thought were "fine" or "really attracted to." However, I also detailed a lot of the end of high school. Here's one section:

I decided to go with J. to the prom. Aside the fact that he's not the most popular guy in the world, I see no reason not to go with him. And according to what I just said, that shouldn't matter. But if he tries anything with me, I'll kill him.

Damn. Didn't realize what a stuck-up bitch was.

Here's another part where I actually respect myself.

Today I got infuriated with A. and with being a girl. It had to do with an argument I had with him and 3 other boys in physics when he told me that girls are genetically inferior to boys in math/science. So today, he and B. were rambling off about their esoteric bullshit when I started wondering why I can't get into a frenzy over Physics like they can. Then it hit me that if I asked Mr. S. a question like what happens to time in the black hole or something like that, he would probably make into a joke or cute comment. It made me so furious and convinced me that girls are negatively reinforced in math and the sciences...being feminine is by all means a LEARNED thing.

Damn, again! You go girl!

I was 18 and for most of the summer I worked at a restaurant where I lusted after most of the male waiters in their twenties.

I have a serious high school crush on S. It drives me crazy because I can't talk to him anymore, and I have an orgasm every time he touches me. I immediately start to imagine what it would be like to have him on top of me...he is very affectionate with everyone so it's really no big deal for him to grab my shoulders and start massaging me or something, but it drives me crazy. Especially, because he's so nonchalant about it...

I have a name for guys like that now. And it's not "creep," but he was probably that, too.

Anyway, it gets more embarrassing, but mostly it's just very telling and boring. Mostly, I can see how woefully unprepared I was for adulthood.

Just for today, I can read my journals from high school and college.

Last night, I went to a fabulous graduation party for Persian Surgeon Salsero. Now that he's completed his 100 years of medical school training, he is now officially employed as a Surgeon Salsero who plays salsa music while he performs liver transplants on children at any given hour of day or night (talk about responsibility...and I worry about making it to the coffee shop before noon).

I had thought I might meet some nice cute surgeons, but never got around to it because I ended up dancing to Persian techno till 3 am. I'm sure there's much more to Perisan dancing, but I did the best anyone can do with a drink in one hand. Add to the other hand a plate of food, and it's a whole other type of dancing. Not good for the digestion, but I did get plenty of protein (loved the food!).

The point is, if I can't tear me away from a mojito, beef shishkabob, and the techno version of Thriller to make an effort NOW, when will I? Although, let's face, I'll never be one to walk away from a techno version of Thriller. Maybe most surgeons know not to dance and eat?

The 26-year-old guy I was dancing asked me how old I was and when I said 36, he told me that I seemed like his age.

"That's because I'm very immature."

At least it's a lot cheaper than Botox.

Just for today, I can have fun at 36.

I think a lot lately about how I'll age. At (almost) 37, I can say that this whole getting old thing...it's no joke. It's some serious reality. I think some part of me always believed that aging was for other people. So was death, disease, and working for a living. Well, no one says I have to die of cancer, but I do have to die and I haven't found a way to get paid for breathing.

Last night, I participated in a salsa dance contest and I started to wonder if I'm turning into that totally geeky, pathetically unhip English teacher who shamelessly idolized the vibe of the kids he/she taught, but who nobody made fun of because they felt so sorry for him/her.

At least I've managed to cut back on Forever 21 (or Forever 37, as my friends says). However, I can't let go of the super short skirts.

Giant sigh(!)

Just for today, I accept that I'm getting old(er).

I procrastinate everything. Now, I have a lot of big shit to take care of...write a book, have a kid...too much! It took me seven years to fix up my bathroom!

Today, I started to stress out. How am I going to do everything? I can at least buy a shelf for my bathroom! So, I drove to Target and bought a damn bathroom cabinet.

Just for today, I can accomplish something.

I spent last Saturday with a friend in China Town, eating real Chinese food (aka, very cheap), and shopping for $5 earrings, when we walked by an old man reading palms.

"I think I should get my palm read," I told her. "I could use some misguided advice from a total stranger."

"Ten dollars for ten minutes seems like kind of a rip off," she replied.

"Well, at least he seems more authentic than the New Age-y palm readers in Venice," I replied.

If by authentic I meant Speaks No English, this guy is the real deal. I'm sure his reading of my palm would have been riveting, had I been able to understand it. He did know how to say, "pay first," "no good," "very good," and "no good after 40." I assumed he meant to say this in reference to my chances of finding a partner and giving birth, but he could have been talking about my liver. What? No good after 40? You mean someone doesn't believe that women can be held in esteem and value by a man and, possibly, procreate after 40?!

"Really, I don't need to go to a palm reader to hear that," I told my friend's boyfriend later. "I think that reading was more about his old man prejudices than anything else."

"I think you could be right," replied Friend's Boyfriend.

Still, he did tell me that I need to wear more gold (I never wear gold), and not date men born in The Year of The Rooster (that would be "no good). Hey, no argument here. I do not get along with Roosters.

Just for today, I can seek guidance from dubious sources.

I had a birthday, and got depressed.

No, not because I'm one year older and, therefore, closer to death. I wouldn't go back to my twenties, or even my early thirties, if you paid me in a flash-forward vision of the next digital social networking craze (complete with venture capital and a posse of Harvard drop-outs). No, I got depressed because I realized that if I have to hear the words, "Finally 21!" from every other adult male on every birthday for the rest of my life, I may have to learn that martial art that allows you to silence vocal chords and cut off oxygen, while looking liking your caressing said victims neck.

I think I exhibited an appreciable degree of tolerance the first 500 times I heard said words, or version, thereof. ("Finally 24," "At last, your of drinking age," ect.), and then I got in a pissed. Do men have to deal with that kind of condescension?

At the very least, come up with something original, like, "Do you remember when Superfriends was on at 6:00 am on Saturdays?" or even "Happy Birthday! How old are you?" I know it's uncomfortable asking a woman how old she is in a city where age is viewed as a plague...but so is dealing with the knives coming out of my eyes.

Just for today, I beg, please just ask me my age.

Each year of my life has a theme (I just don't remember them all). 2006 was The Year of Yes, 2007 The Year of Laid Off, and last year was The Year of Finishing the #$@ Book. That was not fun. However, 2010 is The Year of Fun. I know it may seem that I had fun last year. But trust me, it wasn't nearly enough.

I went to a wine bar tonight to meet a friend who turned out to be running late. So, I got my wine (Chilean, in support of the post-earthquake efforts) and sat by myself. This woman sat next to me and we proceeded to talk for an hour about being unemployed, single, in our late 30's and really fucking happy about all three.

It was fun.

Just for today, I'm enjoying The Year of Fun.

High school reunion. Oh. My. God. Rum. You look great! Now, who are you? (Look at name tag). Oh, my God! Need more alcohol. What are you drinking? Senior prom date recommends a Manhattan. 1st grade group picture! (Or, was it 3rd grade?). Hugs. Oh, my God! Tears. Another Manhattan. More pictures. Someone stole my Manhattan. Crush from 1st grade toasting. Another Manhattan. First communion crew. People who loved me. People who have known me since I wore bell bottoms (the first time around). Sweet memories. Another drink. Beastie Boys. It's 2:00 am...WTF?

What a great night. I loved my reunion!

Just for today, I'm happy I went.

I'm still "tripping" over my high school reunion. Since I had beacoup servings of alcohol from a very generous bartender, I'm sort of still gathering images of people and bits of conversations that make-up an overall general sense of "Oh, Shit, We're Old," combined with "Wow, I Forgot About That Horrible 8th Grade Ski Trip," and "These People Know Me Like No One Else." I know experiences are sweeter in recollection, but once you've coughed up a plume of clove cigarette smoke (amongst other types of smoke), before your brain had finished growing with another, you're never again at a loss of things to talk about. I always thought we were "fast" and "bad," but geez, we seem angelic and innocent compared to some of kids I see today. Listen to me, next thing you know I'll be saying, "Back in my day..." in an old woman's voice.

Seriously, though, back in my day, we weren't on our cell phones 24/7 and most of my friends dress didn't like Vegas strippers. Ok, so maybe I looked like a Vegas stripper in Junior High, but that's because my parents were living on Planet Neglect. Actually, I didn't look like a stripper, I just, as my friend once said, "looked Mexican." My mother used to stand at the door with a wash cloth and wipe my eye make-up off, but I was like, "Hell, no, Mom! I'm 13 and I have the right to single handedly support Wet n' Wild's line of eyeshadow!" Although, who am I kidding? I deftly lifted most of my make-up like a pro. Why steal eye liner that costs $.99? I wasn't the brightest shoplifter...

See, this is what has been happening since the reunion. I'm looking at my yearbook, the one of which I was editor-in-chief (after I stopped wearing blue eye shadow and toxic amounts of Aqua Net) and onto which I shamelessly strew with pictures of myself and my friends - and wondering how I managed that responsibility at 18. I have to say, I'm prouder of that work than most things I've done since.

Just for today, I'm old.

I had been feeling isolated as a writer, which isn't hard to come by when you spend hours alone staring at a computer and waiting for the genius to pour through your fingertips (and then hating yourself when it doesn't come). I tried connecting with some writers and writer blogs, but inevitably got turned off and annoyed...everyone I met seemed too much like me without any of my imagined charming attributes. The Writer Personality, as far as I'm concerned, is a condition in need of a 12-step program.

So, last night, I reconnected with an old friend from my other life as a stand-up comic about writing, plays, dysfunctional families, and all that other stuff that goes with not drinking yourself into a coma. Afterwards, I felt better, and wondered why I hadn't thought to call him earlier. Later, I wondered if I've made all the important connections in my life. Sure, I'm always open to meeting new people, but am I done looking for friends?

In my 38 years of being terminally singe, artsy, and challenged in the area of intimacy, I have met a butt-load of people. Did I say butt-load? I meant boat-load. (Who wants to meet a butt-load of people? That's gross.) I may not be able to talk about my feelings with people (blog audiences excluded), but I have a talent for meeting new ones. It might be different for someone who has been married and raising a family, but since I spent so much of my youth, and not-so-youth mingling with the world, I have met quite a few soul mates. I guess when I was younger, I took these connections for granted, thinking that the world was one big therapy session. Sorry, my mistake. Actually, my life is one big therapy session.

I have met some great people, and made good friends. The ones who stick, really stick. Not on me, per se, like a leech, but more like a piece of furniture that has found it's home in the corner of the room. I may not sit on it, but it's position creates a flow of feng-shui that gives me peace of mind. (Stickers, leeches, an armoir, chair...could my metaphors get any more disorganized?! Ok, 'll try to stay within a category).

It's not that I don't want to meet new people, it's just that if I haven't met you, yet, there's gotta be a good reason, like, you haven't been born, yet, or you have been living in a cave (in which case, get out of your cave!).

I'm grateful for my peeps.

Just for today, I love my friends.

I woke up this morning, and, in that hazy half-dream state realized that I didn't know how old I am. First I thought I was 24, and then was horrified to realize that I'm 32. Except, I'm really 38. And then, once I got fully awake, I realized that some morning, I could wake up and forget my age, and think I'm 24, but will really be 65! If I'm lucky, that is. Holy shit, that will be a sucky morning.

Just for today, I have to stop and think to remember my age.

I recently saw an Old Friend/Ex-Something who, for a variety of boring reasons, ended up taking me for a ride in his new leased Mercedez.

"Mid-life crisis?"

"No, I just really wanted a sports car."

Same thing!

But I get it. I have the girl version of mid-life spending issues.

You really want It. It's very expensive. And, yet, all you know for sure is that you will die someday. Sooner than you thought. Or worse, you will look old. Nice Pricey Thing+Awareness of Mortality=Money Gone That Could Still Be There.

However, I have also been suffering from "frugality fatigue syndrome," also known as Marshall's/Ross/Target School of Style. And, honestly, if my rain coat were Prada, it could not garner more compliments or look more kick-ass. But there's only so many times I can walk past the displayed clothes and into the sales rack before I start feeling like the kid with the sugar-free lunch. Which is all to say that today I walked into [Insert Store I'm Embarrassed To Be Shopping At] and threw down FULL PRICE RETAIL...Bitch!

Damn right, I call that a paycheck.

Later, I went to Abbot-Kinney, home of the muted tones, $200 tank-tops (on sale!) and sales ladies (not sure what else to call them) who, with a few exceptions, possess a look of stoicism that would melt Spock into a puddle. With one glance, while folding the hand woven, silk, Guatemalan-beaded, specially dyed, organic [Insert Clothing Item I've Never Heard Of] they seem to say, "I know you're not buying anything here, Target Raincoat Lady, and I'm not paid enough to smile." I wish I could take off a mask and reveal myself be Gwyneth Paltrow.

Seriously, though, I'm really glad I don't have to try to sell $800 sweaters. Talk about pressure.

Just for today, I'm spending money.

I can't talk to my mom about any of my physical ailments because I know it will begin with, "As you get older..."

YES, MOM, I KNOW I'M OLD!

Still, every minute is more information I didn't previously have. Wishing to be young is like wanting ignorance and cluelessness. Which isn't to say that age guarantees wisdom (i.e., Mel Gibson, Martin Sheen), or that I haven't met people barely out of college who have their shit so tightly put together you could build an ecological house with it [Note: I once heard that some African tribes actually made houses out of manure shaped like bricks] [Note On Note: I don't know where I got that last piece of information...I just remember hearing that "shitting bricks" wasn't just an expression].

In my years walking the planet, I like to think I have come up with a few equations to understand life.

1) Youth = Shit Happens

2) Age = Shit Still Happens

3) Age + Self Reflection = Shit Still Happens + Less Dumbass

4) Age + Self Reflection + Adjustments = Less Self-Generated Shit Happening

5) Age - Self Reflection = Self-Generated Shit Is The Norm

6) Beer + French Fries + Ice Cream = Love Handles

7) Life - $ = Stress

And, yet...

8) $ ≠ No Stress

9) $ ≠ Security

10) Boyfriend ≠ Feelings of Self Worth

11) $ + Boyfriend + Self-Reflection = Perspective - Complaints

I should probably have some bigger equation, but I wasn't good at math.

Just for today, I might have some wisdom.