almost 37

I started this when I was 34 going on 35. Now I am 36 going on 37. Alive and awake, holding on to divergent dreams, still dreading growing old. 

Life has been kind though I have no photos to remember most days. G and I started meeting for sushi every month at a tiny 8-seater diner, and this month we are up to 4 pax in the space. Soon we might be weekday ballers booking out the restaurant. What joy that brings me — the thought that we all like each other enough to take time out on a Tuesday afternoon, then want to do it all over again before the week has even ended.

Because at the end of the day, how lucky we are to have people we love who love us back. Like last night when W and I took up residence at HDL with a 9-hour dinner and probably could have gone on for another 12 hours. Every time we meet I know it will be a night of lost sleep — perhaps 20 years down the road we’ll need to start at breakfast; perhaps our allotted time will never be enough. When you’ve known each other for 20 years, what even is 9 hours? 

I still haven’t bought a house. Still don’t have a car or kids or a manuscript. Still don’t even have a credit card, come to think of it, and don’t intend on getting one anytime soon. In the meantime, a friend published her first monograph; my godfather died; T quit her job; Aunty Leslie retired. The days are tedious but somehow time remains extraordinary.