Dear 25-year-old self,
It’s the year 2023. I write to you from the future. I guess you’ve figured that out.
I’m you at 35 years old. Hey, you’re still alive. I don’t know why that’s always your first question—you sometimes wonder if you’re a bit of a hypochondriac, but then you wonder if labeling yourself as a hypochondriac makes you not one (like how self-identifying as crazy makes one sane enough to not be crazy) or if diagnosing yourself as a hypochondriac is just one of the deliciously “meta” coincidences of life.
Anyway, hi, you’re alive and well.
What does being a middle-aged person feel like?