It is only fitting that since my last two posts were Happy Birthday posts, that I should follow it with another. A perfect trifecta of birthday happiness. Fittingly, I love birthday's. Getting older doesn't bother me, in fact I look forward to it (when you think about what it means if you are not getting older, another year just doesn't seem so bad). I didn't have a problem with 30, a big turning point in most people's lives. For me, it just meant I didn't have to be in my 20's anymore - a decade that seemed to have less angst than my teens, but I still didn't know who I was or who I wanted to be, and that caused its own angst. I thought that turning 30 would magically solve that problem. It didn't. It still took me a few more years to figure out that sense of self but figure it out I did, and it has worked out nicely for me since. 35 was not a big deal, nor was 36. Though it seemed to be a big deal to others because I kept getting asked, "Doesn't it bother you that you are now closer to 40 than you are to 30"? Uh, no, should it? Does it bother you that I am closer to 40 than I was yesterday? I don't mind putting a bit of space between myself and the girl I was at 20, the young woman who thought she knew everything at 25, and the woman who knew she didn't know anything at 30. Finally, at around 35, I realized that I didn't have to know everything and I didn't have to try to have it all figured out. I just had to know who I was, what I wanted to be and what I wanted to stand for (or not stand for as it may be). The rest of the world just had to accept that this is who I was and if it wasn't enough or they didn't like it, well then, that was their loss.
I don't know if it was a coincidence that 35 was also the year that I became a mother for the first time, but I doubt it. I don't believe in coincidences very much. I knew that I had to know myself, inside and out, warts and all, before I could even begin to take on the task of shaping another human being into being a loving, caring, compassionate, brilliantly shining star. (And she is all of that and more - but it really doesn't have much to do with me after all - she just is a natural at it). So, 35 and 36 were a sleep deprived blur. Ditto to 37. Stinkerbell came along just 3 weeks before I turned 36, so I really didn't sleep until I turned 38. Yesterday I celebrated number 39. A number that to some starts a countdown on the final 364 days of their youth. A final year of being able to be lumped in with the younger crowd, because 40 means middle aged, right? A time where you have more in common with your parents, than with a college student (which in my case tend to be about the same number of years older, and younger, than I). Not for me. For me I hope that I am just starting the best years. The years where when I speak, the words I say carry some weight because I have been there, and I have lived through it. That when someone asks me a question about life, I have lived enough in my years to be able to provide a thoughtful answer, culled from experience, not guessing. It means that I have earned the lines on my face. They are there because I have laughed loudly and laughed often. And I plan to keep creating new lines over the next 364 days. And when the clock turns over on that last day of 39, I will gladly welcome 40. Open arms, a huge smile and a what took you so long to get here because this is the time of my life that I feel most comfortable in my skin. And I wouldn't trade that for smooth skin and my unknowing youth for anything
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