Look, I swear I’ve got my life together… mostly. Okay, fine, I had cereal for dinner last night—again—but that’s just because I’m efficient, not irresponsible. People keep asking, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” and honestly, I’m just hoping my student loans stop stalking me by then. But hey, I’m optimistic. I’ve got dreams, ambition, and at least three plants that are still alive. Two and a half if we’re being picky. But the point is: I’m thriving. Sort of. On my own terms. Mostly.

I’ve decided that adulthood is just pretending you aren’t panicking while you Google things like “How long can chicken stay in the fridge before it becomes a biohazard?” My mom keeps asking if I’m “seeing anyone,” and I’m like, “Yes, Mom… my barista. Daily.” But honestly, I’m in my self-care era. Which means face masks, therapy, and saying “no” to anything that starts before 10 A.M. I don’t have everything figured out yet, but I do have a great skincare routine and a very supportive group chat, and honestly? That’s enough for now.

You know you’re officially “middle-aged” when your back goes out more than you do. Last week I sneezed and had to sit down for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, my kids think I’m ancient because I still say things like “taping a show,” and apparently that’s prehistoric. But honestly, I kind of love this phase. I’ve got wisdom, perspective, and a lawn I’m unreasonably proud of. Seriously, it has stripes. I mean, sure, I make dad jokes now—compulsively—but someone’s gotta keep the tradition alive.

I’ve reached the age where I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there, but I remember everyone else’s business perfectly. My kids call it nosy; I call it “attention to detail.” And dating? Please. I don’t have time for anyone who doesn’t at least pretend to understand boundaries and fiber intake. But I’ve never felt more confident. I know what I want, I know what I don’t, and I own lotion specifically for “crepey skin”—which, honestly, feels like a personal attack, but fine. I’m thriving… with hydration.

Valentine’s Day again. The holiday that reminds me I’m either single… or functionally single because I forgot to make a reservation. I tried to be romantic this year—I bought roses, chocolates, the whole thing. Then I realized the roses were plastic and the chocolates had somehow melted while still in the store. But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right? And my thought was, “I’m trying.” Which is basically love in your twenties. Messy, last-minute, but full of effort. And honestly, that’s adorable… I think.

So it’s Valentine’s Day, which means it’s time for me to pretend I don’t actually care while secretly wanting a cheesy, over-the-top romantic gesture… like a giant teddy bear or someone finally texting back within the same hour. My friends are going out for fancy cocktails, and I’m over here debating whether my ideal Valentine’s date is a human or a heart-shaped pizza. And honestly? The pizza is winning. At least it won’t ghost me. But hey, love is in the air—and so is the smell of chocolate, which is basically the same thing.

Valentine’s Day in your forties is all about strategy. You can’t just show up with gas-station flowers anymore unless you want to sleep on the couch—which, by the way, does nothing good for my back. So this year, I’m going classy: real flowers, actual dinner reservations, and a heartfelt card that doesn’t just say “You’re great.” Because nothing says romance like admitting you needed your reading glasses to pick it out. But hey, after all these years, I’ve learned the secret to a good Valentine’s Day: listen, laugh, and for the love of Cupid, don’t forget the dessert.

Valentine’s Day used to mean dramatic gestures—roses, fancy dinners, handwritten love notes. Now? I’d settle for someone noticing I got my hair done and maybe unloading the dishwasher without being asked. That’s romance. But I’ll admit, I still like the magic of the day. The chocolates, the sparkly cards, the idea that love can still surprise you. Even if the biggest surprise is realizing the box of chocolates is mostly just weird fruit creams. But I’m embracing it: the love, the laughter, and the dessert I absolutely do not plan on sharing.