No, I’m not referring to Amazon. What I’m referring to is this particular overbaked, downward-sloping, late-summer time of year when I, like most people on earth, become one year older. (It’s true, mid-September birthdays are the most common of all, thanks, I guess, to the cozy Christmas spirit.)

This year, I am turning a prime number: 37. This feels significant somehow, or at least feels like it ought to feel significant, or maybe I’m just looking for significance where there is none. Have any of you guys noticed anything special about your “prime number” years?

Probably not, but I like to try to find meaning and patterns in the chaos. Let’s take a look back at my previous prime years, shall we, and see if we can observe any interesting trends:

31: the year I had my second baby, which was my most complicated pregnancy and birth. (She cute though; very round-headed; very worth it.) Also a year marked, in its back half, by Covid and a relapse into my ED. A very high-stress and very medical year.

29: the year I finally got sober and, two months later, got pregnant with my first child; probably one of my favorite years to date.

23: the year I finished college. I was actually 24 by the time I graduated in November, but spent most of 23 finishing up art school while drinking a ton. My cousin, who was a close childhood friend, died this year. It was a dark time marked by pretty severe anxiety.

19: Ugh. I have nothing nice to say about 19. Revenge Fat Phase in full swing; everyone around me was disgusted by me, while I just tried to tune it all out with headphones on and heavy Zoloft and heavy perfume (most ironically, “Happy Spirit” by Chopard and “Heiress” by Paris Hilton, lol), giddily binge-watching those early Jeffree Star makeup videos alone in my dorm. Spent six weeks in Germany just being fat and drunk and disgusting all over the place. Highly cringe.

17: the year I started to get really into booze, also, the first year I went to Ireland, which planted the seed of my interest in Christianity. Marked by heartbreak and angst but also creativity; a tragic but also fun age, as 17 tends to be I guess.

13: the year I created my fictional universe! Lots of turmoil irl, but lots of fun interiorly. Green and purple hair, handwritten stories and doodles, silly adventures with best friend.

11: the Invader ZIM year. Also, the year I finished elementary and started middle school. A turbulent age.

7: One of my best years. I had an awesome relationship with my first grade teacher (I was, in fact, the teacher’s pet) and was one of the most admired and influential kids in the class. My most low-anxiety, high-confidence year. Sometimes I really think I peaked at seven.

5: Started kindergarten; hated that. Onset of phobias and anxiety.

3: Moved to a new house on the other side of the state, from the city to the wooded countryside.

2: … I don’t remember being two.

…so, I dunno, seems pretty random. I guess this is a decent snapshot of my evolution through the years, and maybe you could call these milestones or a pattern of some kind — but, I think it’s more likely that selecting any assortment of eleven random years from my previous 36 would probably provide such a snapshot, considering that for most of my life I’ve been in the early, formative years, in which every year was majorly eventful, and feel like I am just now entering the phase where you get to put that formation to use and actually live your regular adult life. By 37, you’ve got all your pieces in place (in theory, anyway); you’ve developed your characters and nailed down your setting, and now, you proceed to actually playing the game. Doing the work of life.

That’s what it feels like to me, anyway. Like the “prime” of life, you might even call it. (Because I very much do not subscribe to the popular belief that 18-25 is the prime of your life! Yikes, what a sad, pitiful life that would be!)

Good news for any youngsters reading this: being in the latter half of your 30s is actually, surprisingly, chill as heck. It seems so horrifying, so bleak, so like the actual real-life End Times, from the POV of your 20s and early 30s, during which time you tend to look around at women a few years your senior and go: “good Lord Almighty!! That woman still dresses like that at 37?! Like she’s having fun with her wardrobe and makeup choices??! And that woman is 39 and still trash-talking like a teenager on social media? How pathetic! How embarrassing! Don’t they realize they are too old??! And, holy crap, that woman is 38 and actually pregnant??!! Gasp! I could NEVER!! Has she no shame? Pack it up, grandma! When I’m that old, I’ll at least be dignified about it! I’ll be decidedly ancient and past my prime!! The good times will be over, and I’ll just have to accept it gracefully!”

… but then, you get here, to your late 30s, and you realize you don’t actually feel any different. You’re still the exact same scared, stupid kid with the same juvenile passions and drippy little secret wants and needs. Just also with a few gray hairs and fine wrinkles, now.

But the cool thing about that is, the pressure is off. Women below the age of approximately 30-35 are perpetually, whether they like it or not, subject to this massive societal pressure to be Girly and Sexy and Appealing and Romantic, to be simultaneously a docile little angel and an independent #Girlboss, a pure waif and a sultry vixen at the same time, somehow, and are just heavily objectified left and right, by everyone, no matter what they do or what they look like.

But then! Once you’re past 35 and into the dark, dreaded Late Thirties territory, you’re relatively safe from all that. You’re immune now. You’ve aged out. You’re an old crone, you’re no longer marketable, and now you can just live out your days in peace.

But, you’re still in your 30s, so you’re still pretty healthy and spry and energetic and able to enjoy this freedom to the fullest! I, for one, am lucky to feel just as physically healthy and strong as I did at 29, but more stable, more aware of myself; imo, this is probably my peak form, right now, health-wise. I don’t see any reason to slow down on anything. It’s almost like I can do whatever I want, now.

So no. I’m not afraid to be 37. Already there are a few big things I’m looking forward to in the coming year (ten-year wedding anniversary, my first child’s First Communion…), and who knows what will come after. The forecast looks to be way better than 27 or 17 was. Not sure if I can beat 7, though — that was a really good year.

Hey, we’ll see though. An old crone can still be surprised. Bring on the Prime.