What's my age again?

If I could flip a switch and play a song perfectly suited to my life - à la Ally McBeal - my number one "go to" would probably be "What's My Age Again?" by Blink 182. 

My 35th birthday was last month.  (I whined about it a LOT.) 

Here I am, a 35-year-old woman, and I still feel like such a child.  And I'm not talking about in the physical sense.  Shoot, I'd love to sit here and brag about my rockin' teenager-esque physique.  Sadly, that is not the case.  The reality is I'm unemployed, broke, in the process of getting divorced, not likely to ever have children (although I'm questioning my ability to be responsible for another human life at this point), and now scrambling to find another place to live. 

Whoa, I'm having some major déjà vu here!  Didn't I already do this in my twenties?  Well, except for the divorce part.

I mean, who lives like this?!  Besides me, of course.  Oh yeah...my mother!  She's still livin' it up in Loserville at 58!  Fabulous...I'm turning out to be just like my mom.  Greeeaaat.  Worst. Nightmare. Realized.

Okay, before you go and roll your eyes so far back into your head that they get stuck there, let me reassure you that I am well aware that I'm at this point in my life because of choices and decisions I've made, not anyone else.  So here I whine, whine, whine (a little cheese would be lovely, thank you) and cry, cry, cry but I don't blame anyone but myself.

Is this my freakish way of clinging to my youth?  I kind of doubt it, but I did ponder the idea for all of 2.2 seconds.

Alright, enough psychobabble for now.