THE PUBLIC SHELF
Open on my next birthday
Happy birthday, me. Thirty four. How does it feel?
Right now, on the night I'm writing this, I'm worried about three things: money, my left knee, and whether I made a huge mistake turning down the job in Denver. I'm writing them down so you can tell me how it all turned out, because I genuinely don't know, and that's terrifying.
Here's what I want for you this year. I wrote it as a list because you love lists.
Learn to swim properly. Not the panicked doggy paddle. Actual strokes.
Read twelve books. One a month. Real ones, not just the first chapter of twelve books.
Stop checking your phone first thing in the morning. Look out the window first. Just for a minute.
Call Dad on Sundays even when it's awkward.
Tell Maria you're sorry about the wedding thing. You know what I mean.
If you did all of that, amazing. If you did two, that's still two more than last year, and I'm proud of you anyway.
One more thing. I hope you're kinder to yourself than I'm being right now. I hope by the time you read this you've stopped running the numbers on whether you're enough.
You are. You always were.
Me at 33
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