Yesterday, I celebrated another year of my life. I can't think of just two words to describe my life because it requires an entire paragraph. I can't believe I'm 32. 32. Thirty-two.
Yep, any way you write it it's old. I'm no longer at the starting gate. People don't ask me what my plans are because they've already been drawn. No one wants to know my major, I've majored, minored and Ph'D in parenting (and formal education is completely irrelevant at this point). My race has begun and I've bolted into the world full speed ahead. Two children atop my long and bowed back, a fabulous husband at my side (no doubt shouting encouragement at ear deafening levels), my cheering section teeming with wonderful friends and supportive family. With each stride I watch my skin stretch farther from my bones.
Thiiiiirrrrrrttttttyyy Tttwwwwwo. Doesn't it sound like a dirty number? There's something so sweet and flirty about the number 20 (and the following 9 ages afterward). But 30 is dirty. 30 is wrinkles and reality. 30 needs coffee and the occasional Motrin to start her day. 30 is selfless and achy, confident and self-conscious. I guess I have 8 more years of this until I can define 40. Oh yay.
Two years ago I walked into the local hardware store on my birthday. At the checkout, a jovial woman with big lips looked at my ID and shouted, "You're THIRTY Today! Happy Birthday!" I curled into a tiny ball on the floor in embarrassment. I peeked around to confirm that everyone was staring at me, their mouths gaping at the shock of my age. The checker continued, at a larger than life volume, "HONEY, EVERYTHING GETS BETTER AFTER 30!!!! TRUST ME!"
It's been two years and I think she was on to something besides complete humiliation. Life has gotten pretty good. Albeit less rosy, more rewarding, challenging in ways that begin and end with Toddler, fewer mystery doors, a loathing for fluorescent lighting, an all out love for days beginning with preschool, appreciation for little things (like bathroom door locks), less drama, more happiness and caffeine.
So Happy Birthday, to every woman who can drive her life with one eye on the rear view mirror, one hand holding a bottle and the other hand on her social life, all the while keeping her life on the road, and an eye on her future.
Yep, any way you write it it's old. I'm no longer at the starting gate. People don't ask me what my plans are because they've already been drawn. No one wants to know my major, I've majored, minored and Ph'D in parenting (and formal education is completely irrelevant at this point). My race has begun and I've bolted into the world full speed ahead. Two children atop my long and bowed back, a fabulous husband at my side (no doubt shouting encouragement at ear deafening levels), my cheering section teeming with wonderful friends and supportive family. With each stride I watch my skin stretch farther from my bones.
Thiiiiirrrrrrttttttyyy Tttwwwwwo. Doesn't it sound like a dirty number? There's something so sweet and flirty about the number 20 (and the following 9 ages afterward). But 30 is dirty. 30 is wrinkles and reality. 30 needs coffee and the occasional Motrin to start her day. 30 is selfless and achy, confident and self-conscious. I guess I have 8 more years of this until I can define 40. Oh yay.
Two years ago I walked into the local hardware store on my birthday. At the checkout, a jovial woman with big lips looked at my ID and shouted, "You're THIRTY Today! Happy Birthday!" I curled into a tiny ball on the floor in embarrassment. I peeked around to confirm that everyone was staring at me, their mouths gaping at the shock of my age. The checker continued, at a larger than life volume, "HONEY, EVERYTHING GETS BETTER AFTER 30!!!! TRUST ME!"
It's been two years and I think she was on to something besides complete humiliation. Life has gotten pretty good. Albeit less rosy, more rewarding, challenging in ways that begin and end with Toddler, fewer mystery doors, a loathing for fluorescent lighting, an all out love for days beginning with preschool, appreciation for little things (like bathroom door locks), less drama, more happiness and caffeine.
So Happy Birthday, to every woman who can drive her life with one eye on the rear view mirror, one hand holding a bottle and the other hand on her social life, all the while keeping her life on the road, and an eye on her future.
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