Lady Gaga is just fine. So is Yo-Yo Ma. So are sweats. And so is not waving and saying HI to my neighbor every single time he leaves his house.

Thirty-seven seems to be a good year to let the whatevers settle where they settle. Meaning I can give in to a few harmless vices, and discard some literal and figurative baggage. I eat raw cookie dough. I throw away magazines I've paid for, yet have no interest in reading (i.e. Writer's Digest and Some Preachy Cooking Magazine). I play my hand-held, $7 Yahtzee game until my neck hurts from the required hunching, and I don't download apps on my phone. I cook a lot of breakfast-for-dinner (like, every night or thereabouts), and I fart. It feels like I'm being self-indulgent or neglectful or both, but really, since 37 is kind of kicking my ass, I'm going to rationalize it as self-preservation.

I don't care if I'm supposed to be friends with that one mom from my school who has very bright children and is very involved with the community and shares a huge number of mutual friends. I don't like her. She's sour. I don't care if I say the wrong thing at social gatherings if my statements aren't hurtful to anyone. What, we're not supposed to have opinions and heaven forbid we air them in public?

I want people to know when I like them, or when I'm supportive of or impressed by what they do. I want the checker at Shopko to know that I think she has beautiful skin. And conversely, I want my neighbor to know that, no, actually, I don't like it when they wait so long to mow their lawn that the gazillion dandelions in their yard begin populating the entire block.

So that's my parenting formula as well. Tell them when you're pleased as much as you tell them when you're displeased, because how else will they know you mean it?

Thirty-seven. The year I quit faking. Also the year I legitimately began turning into my mom and grandma.