33 and Two (or Holy F**king Sh*t, I’m Turning 33)

Holy fucking shit.

I’m turning 33 in two months.

I’m always aware of time passed in relation to my birthday; especially now that I study astrology. At the end of June, I did a fourth quarter analysis of #TheMagicYear: what I’d learned and accomplished; where I’d changed; lessons and (dare I say) goals to close out before my birthday. Yet, I didn’t register how old I will be in October.

Until now.

Holy fucking shit.

I’m turning 33 in two months.

I don’t see a 33-year-old in the mirror. While the fullness of my breasts and hips and the softness in my midsection denote a slowing metabolism, I still see an arrogant 20something who doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does. It doesn’t help that said mirror is located in a bedroom at my mother’s house where I’m still in “get my life together” purgatory until (prayerfully) next summer.

However, I’ve felt the tides turning for an unidentifiable amount of time I’ll lazily refer to as “awhile.”

I identify my bullshit with such laser focus that I often laugh aloud. Girl, you know that didn’t make an ounce of sense, right? I’m impatient with ruminating (especially my own) and have adopted a “Feel your feelings, but get on with it” life philosophy. My guilt over ignoring the treadmill screams louder than it ever has. My stomach punishes me for ice cream and extra-milky coffee. My feet no longer tolerate poorly-made heels. I’ve grown weary with buying new dresses every season. I’ve no desire to engage in frivolity for the sake of pop culture awareness (still looking at you, SnapChat).

These grievances can be tied into a growing package labeled I’m Getting Too Old for This Shit.

Holy fucking shit.

I’m turning 33 in two months.

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