I turned 35 on Saturday, the 50th anniversary of the moon landing. (It’s weird to think that the moon landing was only 15 years to the day before I was born. 1969 seems a lot farther from 1984 than 2004 does from 2019.) I fully expected to be miserable on the day that officially determined than any pregnancy I ever have will be a “geriatric” pregnancy. And there’s still no guy who could help me achieve that geriatric pregnancy in sight.

But even though I’m really unhappy with the state of my life, and even though it’s hard not to focus on everything I DON’T have (love, relationship, kids, house, fulfillment), this was actually one of the best birthdays I’ve had in a long time. I told Erin, Julie, and Pam months ago to clear their calendars for that day because I knew I’d need moral support. So on my birthday, they came over to hang out in the pool (on a really freaking hot day), get dinner, and sit around on my floor eating ice cream cake and drinking Diet Sunkist.

This is 35.

And for some reason, I can’t help but feel hopeful…