37.

I was mesmerized by them. There I was on the couch, glass of wine next to me, Family Feud on the boob tube, donning my jammies before 8pm and fixating on two numbers.

3. 7.

There they were, right in front of me. I could almost hear them laughing.

37.

37 pounds.

It was a massive box, and at that moment I felt like I could very well be on my way to becoming the human equivalent if I continued to unwind by the vine in lieu of feeling the burn.

37.

The numbers were very, very big. Why did they need to be so big? You don’t buy the stuff because of its weight or to boast to your friends that yours is three pounds more than theirs, you buy it because it’s a massive box — period. It’s something that you really don’t want to have to buy frequently, so bulk is clearly the way to go.

Staring at a box of cat litter with vino a few inches away isn’t exactly the life I thought I’d be living when, as a 20-something gal, I tried to imagine life in my 30s. Mine is part Bridget Jones and part Sex and the City (emphasis on city, not so much on sex), and by that I’m talking an 80/20 Bridget/SaTC ratio, respectively. But it’s a life undeserving of complaints. It’s good comedy, it’s just my speed and — while I poke fun at it from time to time — it’s mine to handle as I please, and to joke about if I wish. Truth be told, if it was any more lively, I’d be exhausted far more than I already am.

37 is my next birthday, and it’s less than three months away. Aside from the fact that I feel every day of those 37 years throughout my body and that a gigantic cat litter box was getting in on the action and reminding me of 37’s impending arrival, I feel fine about 37. I feel fine about 40, even. I’m just not so sure about the cat litter connection. A bottle of wine or some cake with those numbers, however, no problem at all.

Cellar 37, anyone? Perhaps a 37 layer cake?

A girl can dream.

Tonight I am thankful for my life, for its quiet and quirky ways, for cat litter and furbabies alike, and for wine to occasionally quiet the already hushed, distant buzz of my world even further.

I’m coming for you, 37. Get ready.

Cheers.

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