Apparently 37 is the year.
I truly thought I would hit 40
And freak out
Do all that sports-car-plastic-surgery-whirlwind trip to France- malarkey

…ok, no plastic surgery. 
That’s just a step too far. 

But 40! 
That was the year I made time
A slot for existential crisis
Next to motherhood and a new car.

But as always I guess
I’m impatient
Or the universe is
Because here we are at 37

A newly single mother
With dramatic bangs
About to dye her hair red
About to buy that dress
About to spend far too much money 
On an experience just for her
Which she will surely twist in guilt for
But will love every second of

And it’s not death I’m chasing
He’ll come to me, the sly dog,
But life rather. 
There’s a lot of that shit out there
And at 37 I want some. 

Maybe a tattoo, too…
What do you think?