Berta's Birthday Blog 2025
I’m not a fan of odd numbers, if I’m being honest. I’m leaving my early 30s and transitioning into the precipice of my mid 30s— despite this, if you ask me if I like being this age, I’ll respond, “Does a bear shit in the woods?” I’m turdy tree, if you will. I have no qualms of what seems like a boring birthday, because, face it girls, I’m older and I have more insurance.
Now that I’m a woman of a certain age, with commissioned, custom turquoise jewelry and a budding Le Creuset collection (read: addiction), I’m feeling more certain about being uncertain and knowing what I don’t know.
Recently, I had a tarot and astrology birth chart reading. I love woo woo, but I’m sensible enough to take these things with a grain of salt— and I enjoy the introspection that comes with crystalline knowledge of age. The reader told me that I’m moving into an era where I’m making solidified plans— and I couldn’t agree more. He said, “You’re only going to be interested in any opportunities or situations that come up, leading to your long term happiness.” I’m shedding what my life “should” look like “by this point.”
If 2020 was my flop era, this era has been about rebuilding— my career, my confidence, and my quality of life. I’m playing The Long Game, now. My previous mantra of “house, husband, dog” is only a third of the way realized, but the energy is there. And I’ll spare my witchy rituals I’ve conducted, lest you think I need lobotomized, but some things can be sacred, even for someone who wears their heart on their sleeve like me.
At the same time, I’ve almost completely shut myself off from the dating scene. Not because I’m hopeless, but because it doesn’t serve me right now. I tried speed dating while I was home, and I genuinely liked the experience— but I didn’t match with anyone. And that’s ok! A lot of you are cute, but many of you can’t handle me. I won’t blame men for giving me crumbs; I blame myself for accepting so little when I have a lot of love to give. It’s an area of growth I’ve recognized needs some attention, and despite my bad “picker,” I choose to pick myself for the time being.
With age, sometimes, comes wisdom. I’m employing what could be seen as a cold concept, but in fact, it’s very loving. I call it “That Ain’t Got Shit To Do With Me” and it works wonders in handling misdirected energy— because I know you’re not talking to ME like that. Maybe it’s personal, maybe it’s not, but I’m not in the business of holding someone’s hand when they project and can’t manage their own emotions. This forcefield of peace I’ve built is a paradise constructed from my own trodden doormats. Notwithstanding, I will gladly own up to my shortcomings when I fail someone. And I will offer grace and compassion within reason.
By no means am I acting as if I’ve reached monk status— lord knows I have so much left to learn. But this is a fabulous time of extra scrutiny and discernment of what I’m allowing into my circle. I don’t need my life to make sense to you, just know that I’m living it and (mostly) enjoying the ride. I’m becoming more curious about things that never would’ve interested me, like teetotalism and celibacy, though let’s not get crazy here. I still never want kids, and you won’t pry coffee from my cold, dead hands. If I start running marathons, someone has brainwashed me or offered an ungodly amount of money; everyone has a number.
As for this blog, you know me. Sometimes I post a lot. Sometimes it’s a year before I say anything. I have plenty of posts in the pipeline (that damn alliteration again, someone get her more literary devices, like such as The Iraq), mostly involving my travels to Shanghai, the Terra Cotta Army, a gay yoga retreat in Mexico, and local adventures in Port Townsend. Your favorite bon vivant has been, in fact, vivanting.