Well I have news for you, Eric Smith (utterer of that glorious original sentence); it IS my birthday. My birthday month, anyway. And because I share this birthday month with some very special people, I go ahead and declare the whole thirty-one days cupcake worthy. It's a sweet month for me.
But you know how it gets when the years start piling up. Instead of proudly declaring oneself seven and a half, then seven and three quarters, then almost eight, you're just twenty-six for fifteen years until the grandma running the makeup counter suggests her brand and you realize you're no longer pulling it off.
I don't know what happened this year (divorce, single-motherhood, too much sun, not enough butter--take your pick), but I hit a devastating milestone. Twenty-seven was the year I stopped being accused of being too young for my life. Too young to be married. Too young to be in college. Too young to adopt. Too young to teach. Too young to write. Too young to know those were compliments, not insults, regardless of the spirit in which they were given.
With twenty-eight just around the corner, I'm compulsively taking stock of the laugh lines I didn't have last year and the gray hair I've probably had all along but can't actually see so, who cares? Almost twenty-eight-year-old me. That's who cares. I want to appreciate these little signs of aging--to see them as the battle scars that identify me as a senior member of the team, someone who values wisdom and wit over wrinkle-free skin.
But there's still a pretty wide chasm between the person I want to be and the person I am. The me I'm looking at in the mirror this morning really does want that moss bathmat because then my rapidly aging visage won't be them most fascinating thing in the bathroom. In fact, I might sling that bathmat over my shoulder and take it to parties--give people something other than "you look tired" to observe about me.
I do look tired. And I'm proud to say, it's because I am tired. Tired because I play hard with my baby girl. Tired after a good, long hike with a friend. Tired because we stayed up late drinking wine and laughing. Tired because that book was so good I couldn't put it down, even as the moon started to set. Tired because I work hard to take care of myself and my kid. Tired because I can't sleep with him next to me; I don't want to waste a moment. Tired because there is so much life to be lived, and I've only had twenty-seven years to do the living.
I'd be a liar if I said I like the wrinkles and the scars and the creaking knees. But I'll be damned if I'm going to regret turning the page on another year to be lived. Another year to exhaust myself with all the possibilities. So many are not that lucky. Hell, I may not be that lucky. But until the hour my luck runs out, I'll be wiggling my wet toes in the moss, anxiously contemplating my next step.
But you know how it gets when the years start piling up. Instead of proudly declaring oneself seven and a half, then seven and three quarters, then almost eight, you're just twenty-six for fifteen years until the grandma running the makeup counter suggests her brand and you realize you're no longer pulling it off.
I don't know what happened this year (divorce, single-motherhood, too much sun, not enough butter--take your pick), but I hit a devastating milestone. Twenty-seven was the year I stopped being accused of being too young for my life. Too young to be married. Too young to be in college. Too young to adopt. Too young to teach. Too young to write. Too young to know those were compliments, not insults, regardless of the spirit in which they were given.
With twenty-eight just around the corner, I'm compulsively taking stock of the laugh lines I didn't have last year and the gray hair I've probably had all along but can't actually see so, who cares? Almost twenty-eight-year-old me. That's who cares. I want to appreciate these little signs of aging--to see them as the battle scars that identify me as a senior member of the team, someone who values wisdom and wit over wrinkle-free skin.
But there's still a pretty wide chasm between the person I want to be and the person I am. The me I'm looking at in the mirror this morning really does want that moss bathmat because then my rapidly aging visage won't be them most fascinating thing in the bathroom. In fact, I might sling that bathmat over my shoulder and take it to parties--give people something other than "you look tired" to observe about me.
I do look tired. And I'm proud to say, it's because I am tired. Tired because I play hard with my baby girl. Tired after a good, long hike with a friend. Tired because we stayed up late drinking wine and laughing. Tired because that book was so good I couldn't put it down, even as the moon started to set. Tired because I work hard to take care of myself and my kid. Tired because I can't sleep with him next to me; I don't want to waste a moment. Tired because there is so much life to be lived, and I've only had twenty-seven years to do the living.
I'd be a liar if I said I like the wrinkles and the scars and the creaking knees. But I'll be damned if I'm going to regret turning the page on another year to be lived. Another year to exhaust myself with all the possibilities. So many are not that lucky. Hell, I may not be that lucky. But until the hour my luck runs out, I'll be wiggling my wet toes in the moss, anxiously contemplating my next step.
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| Last year's birthday month celebration! |
Note: The 19 heros who lost their lives in Arizona Sunday were heavy on my mind as I wrote this post. I am loathe to use their tragedy as an interesting subject or anecdote for my useless blog, but I want to say these men lived short lives of great purpose and I am humbled by their sacrifice and devastated at the loss.
"Excessive caution destroys the soul and heart, because living is an act of courage, and an act of courage is alway an act of love."
Paulo Coelho
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