THIRTY. SEVEN.

Woohoo -- it's almost been two weeks! My unintentional-but-downright-rhythmic bimonthly blogging plan is working -- WORRRRRRRRRRRRKING muhahahahahahaha!

*ahem* Sorry 'bout that. I get carried away when I'm talking to myself and an assorted group of friends, real and Internet. :D (I don't care if emoticons are blasé or passé or any other French word. My blog, my rules.)

Things that make me sad: Kathy Griffin shilling for Arby's.

I could watch Friends reruns every day, multiple times a day. I may have said this before. I just had to say it again. Love me, love my obsession.

The first few minutes of "Monsters, Inc." kill me every single time I see the movie.

I don't get a lot of feedback on Twitter and therefore essentially talk to myself. I'm surprisingly okay with this.

I turn 37 on Saturday. (THIRTY. SEVEN. WHAT?!?) I'm making plans for fun things to do all day. So far I've come up with:

• Brunch with assorted lesbians (Mix and match or buy the complete set!) and my folks at my favorite breakfast place which has awesome, healthy, hearty breakfasts served by some of the nicest people on the planet. So. Fucking. Stoked.
• Go to a drugstore and buy some mostly-like-chapstick lip balm with a hint of color so I can sort of pretend I wear makeup without actually having to wear it. If I'm considerably hopped up on caffeine, I might consider buying other makeup like items. Definitely some false eyelashes.
• Go to a cosmetology school and get a discount facial or something else that will make me feel pretty for around, oh, $20. Or go to the nearby pedicure place and get my triflin' toes taken care of.
• Maybe see a movie. I wish "Love and Other Drugs" opened up in time. Might see "Morning Glory" since "Easy A" seems to have hightailed it out of theatres already. Or maybe go to a nice little cafe that specializes in tea and sit and have a cuppa while I write.
• Go to dinner with Vanessa and Brenda. Sushi + much booze likely. W-I-N.
• If not too drunk, broke, or tired, go to one of the previously-mentioned movies.

I recently started doing yoga with a friend. We follow a yoga DVD hosted by Megan Garcia -- it's a Just My Size program. It's pretty good. Most of the postures are doable and the ones that aren't, I can modify. The ability to modify poses, the reminder in doing so that yoga is for every body, and the fact that you don't need props, special clothing, or ANY clothing (well, unless you're in public) to do yoga are the things that I love best about the practice. I'm noticing the tiniest of differences the day or two afterwards -- mostly the hint of a growing strength -- and would like to get into the practice every day. Keep that shit going. I also want to swim laps but Jesus GOD I need to find a gym that isn't 25 minutes away from me.

I may have mentioned, sometime around the time that I started this blog, probably, that I did yoga teacher training several years ago. I signed up for a semester-long program that killed me financially, even after I got a scholarship, and learned a lot about yoga and myself. The part that was toughest was learning more about myself. I felt like I had so much to prove; I outweighed everyone in the class by a cool 200 pounds and was standing up for every person who has ever thought fat people were lazy, didn't exercise, blah la la issues 1, 2, 3, and 400, coming right up. Doing yoga moves around energy and even though I was seeing a therapist at the time, getting through the classes proved to be difficult; there were nights I just couldn't go. I never made up my absences and therefore couldn't get certified. I have fantasies/thoughts about doing the training again at a different school (I had some issues with the teachers at the old school and also, hello, do-over!) and getting certified so I could teach a class specifically for big people. I won't officially add 'pursue training' to my list of resolutions for 2011 because, well, I looked up training at my ideal school and it's going to cost around $2,500. It's okay if the idea is cost-prohibitive right now; I'm okay with saving towards my goal, paying off some other bills, and getting myself back into a more active shape. I've got cores to strengthen and quads to squeeze... or something. I've got a sciatic nerve issue that is really hampering my getting around and it's only going to get worse if I sit in a chair and atrophy. I'm currently allowing the Y to take $30/month out of my account for a gym membership I'm not using, but if I cancel it then I DEFINITELY won't go (and signing up anew is a pain in the butt). Everything happens for a reason, though. I'm just not sure what this one is yet, but I'm not worried.

I can't get a clear answer from Vox about being hired full-time. They're allegedly talking about it and seeing if/how they can get me more hours. A full-time receptionist position is opening up and I asked about it, but they don't want me to go for it. Apparently, they (the editors) will "never get me back," whatever that means. From the first floor? Back to editing? Or are they worried I'll fall into a complacent coma and live out my days answering the switchboard and taking 50 cents from every person who wants a soda from the staff fridge? The Good Editor told me I didn't want the job and I wanted to say, "Of COURSE I don't. I've been a receptionist. It blows. BUT. IT'S. FULL. TIME." There is an urgency that they are clearly not feeling and I need to ratchet up the, I don't know, clear visual of me hightailing it out the door in a couple months. I don't want to leave Vox -- I like the work and the writing is great fun -- but I'm doing SO much for SO little money. Like 'I can't afford rent AND a car payment' little, not 'I can't install gold floors on my yacht' little. Also, the unemployment that I'm still half-on will run out in roughly four months (okay, that's longer than I thought) but when it's gone, I'm done. I very clearly said that to Good Ed -- I believe the exact phrase was "I don't make enough here to survive" -- and she still didn't seem that concerned. We have a staff meeting tomorrow -- which is generally a lot like a tennis match as a conversation unfolds between two editors, neither of whom is me -- and I will have both Good Ed and Micromanager Ed in the same room. Then... I pounce.

Somewhat inexplicably, three of the blogs I read are technically mommy blogs: Amalah, Dooce, and All & Sundry. I don't remember who I found first, but I found the others in fairly rapid succession because I think they're all friends and/or know each other from conferences like BlogHer. Anyway, I read Sundry's post tonight and wanted to share my own take on it since I am also soon-to-be-37. (THIRTY. SEVEN!)

Here you are, 36-almost-37, suddenly slow and achy and creaky when the temperature drops, left wondering when cold traded 'nuisance' for 'enemy.' You fancy housewares and want nothing more than a down comforter for your birthday. There was a time when you wore ripped jeans, let your hair fall into your face after you applied take-no-prisoners red lipstick, and smoked cigarettes like you were about to stand in front of a firing squad. Now, you make plans to go shopping for a good pair of walking shoes and wonder just when you became one of those people who should probably start taking a sweater with her everywhere.

There is a rhythm here, a pulse, something you understand as you progress towards wisdom: you haven't turned into this person, this 'real adult' overnight, but the days of being 24 and dancing in a club past midnight are faint in the memory like a story you can't quite remember.

Gone too, though, is the deep anger, all that you knew before hard work and tears. You have traded parties full of superficial friends for Friday morning coffee with one good listener. It's good -- great, even -- this assurance, this inherent knowledge that things are unfolding how they should. Even though you sometimes play that game where you're an entirely different person -- a business woman in Prada and Louboutins, clicking her way through an airport, maybe -- there is a comfort in knowing this is how things are really supposed to be. Sometimes you miss the wild and crazy ways you loved all those people who were so desperately wrong for you but you tuck those pencil-scratch stories into your pocket and let the next chapter unfold.