How Did This Happen?

Since my birthday is in September, I have a habit of spending the summer months telling people I'm the age I'm about to turn. I believe this started in 1982, when I just couldn't wait to turn 10. More recently, I had the bordering-on-existential experience of telling someone I'm 35. It still seems like an age that's far in the distance, but it's right there in front of me.

Cat Litter on a Saturday Night

I went to a birthday party in Park Slope last night. The party was fun, great conversations with fabulous people and an excellent chocolate layer cake. It was nice out so I decided to walk part way down Fifth Avenue before getting on the bus. I remembered I needed cat litter so I stopped at a corner deli, bought some Fresh Step and crossed the street, passing by Ginger's, the local lesbian bar. I stood outside for about thirty seconds, tempted to enter the establishment, then I got a grasp of the situation: I'm a perpetually single thirty-something woman, alone on a Saturday night, about to go into my local dyke bar carrying a bag of cat litter. I am not ready to become that person, I thought to myself. I am at least fifteen years away from becoming her. At least. I also happened to be wearing comfortable shoes, not my usual platform goodies, and this just seemed to compound my feelings of loser-ness. I did not go in. Sigh.