Thirty nine and feeling fine…
that was the caption I used when I posted a birthday picture on social media last Friday. It was a glorious day, spent with my best guys, a posse of zoo dwellers, and a few boxes of Russell Stover’s finest nut assortments. As any late-thirties gal would do on her special day, I wore my pink sparkly birthday hat, a ribbon proclaiming my “Birthday Girl” status, and a smile to match my child-like enthusiasm. In the image below, you’ll see I also insisted on being carried by my burley teen boys, because I carried those fools for long enough, and I rather enjoy the phrase “tables turned.”
Over The Hill Schmill
Perhaps you’re wondering whether it occurred to me that my youth is now vanishing like a teen with a twenty dollar bill. Yes, in fact, it has occurred to me. And maybe you wonder if I realize that in the coming months/years, I’ll find gray hairs hiding in my dark mane, creases forming in prominent places on my face. I’ll add more potions to my cosmetics collection and hear myself repeating the obnoxious phrases my mother used when she was (gasp) my age and I was, as my boys are, much younger and smarter. But I’ve already discussed this here on the blog. And last year, I vowed to keep enjoying my birthdays and never again mourn the passing of time.
Birthdays ought to be celebrated. Because being alive and well is truly a gift, so to hell with the physiology of aging. I will focus on the memories I’m making, the brilliant sunsets that await, and the adventures/opportunities that greet me each new day.
With my face turned to the flickering candles on my cake this year, I opted to make a promise rather than a wish: Count memories not years, laughter not wrinkles, love not loss.
P.S. Next post, I’ll reveal my gifts…stay tuned to see what I unwrapped.