I turned 34 last week, and I don't have anything profound to say about it.
I'm a woman well into adulthood who has yet to figure out how to keep a tidy house; what hairstyle looks best on her head; which jeans flatter her figure; how to pretend to be normal; what she wants to be when she grows up; and what both the immediate and distant futures hold for her.
Speaking in the third person -- it's not for novices!
It's normal for me to take an inventory of my failures and unmet goals around my birthdays. This year wasn't as self-flagellating and miserable as certain previous years, although there was that visit to the doctor who asked pointedly: Is there a history of anxiety in your family? (Most things like that are family secrets; information that never trickles down to me. No, doctor! Actually, my family invented rainbows and kittens.)
Truly, this year was OK. I feel I am moving, albeit exceedingly slowly, in the right direction on many fronts.
Slowness is something I am still trying to accept about myself. Most things don't come naturally to me; most tasks are more difficult than I'd expected; I'm not the multi-tasking wizard I once claimed to be on my resume. My most redeeming trait has always been my quiet and generally easy-going nature, which is often mistaken for shyness or calm. It's what's gotten me jobs and friends; there's no danger of my personality overshadowing yours.
No, it was just fine, my birthday. I only thought a little bit about my most pressing problem, that one unmet goal that's always buzzing annoyingly around my head. Most of my friends have stopped asking because it's too painful after two miscarriages.
Everything isn't crap, it's just my human nature to focus on it. I've had 34 adventurous years I wouldn't live differently, even though I did many, many things wrong. I have love, kittens, family, friends, a home, a book, wine ... I've finally managed to start doing a few things right for a change, and good things are going to happen.