I’m 37 today. That’s so weird to see in print. I definitely don’t feel it. I don’t believe my 20th high school reunion is next year.

I can’t stop thinking a lot about this Twitter thread about my generation’s “crisis of temporality.” Sunny Moraine says, “We don’t know what we’re doing. We’ve lost our guideposts, our benchmarks, our rubrics for life.”

I never feel like I’m doing, but it’s nice to know that others feel that crisis, too.

Many years, I spend this night alone. This year, I’m still at my parents’s house after Christmas, and they decided not to go out this year. This doesn’t feel like what a single 37-year-old woman is meant to be doing on her New Year’s Eve birthday, but what else should I be doing?

I can’t afford to sit at a bar all night; I don’t make enough money for that. There aren’t any bars nearby anyway. I’m out in the suburbs because that’s where I can afford to live.

I spent so many years muddling my way through an education to get here, and I never learned all that social stuff you’re supposed to learn before 37. But it seems none of the straight men my age learned that stuff either. Just once in my life, it would be nice to be impressed.

But then again, I’m the one sitting at home in my pyjamas on my birthday.