Today is my 41st birthday. It just seems like yesterday I was lined up at the DMV to test for my driver’s license. Where has all of that time gone? Well honey, it’s marching all over my face and slowly down my body.
Heh. That’s not a bad thing. I’m a firm believer in aging gracefully and accepting what the man upstairs gave me. Sure, I wish I’d worn my sunscreen in my youth and started some of the serums and potions I smear on my face a little earlier, but I’d not change it. I don’t look half bad for a women who’s currently propped up on the sofa, watching bad comedy, and yelling at my son to not cut a third piece of the birthday cake my Mom brought over.
Birthdays, like income taxes, are inevitable. I’ll confess how much I loathed turning 30. It was awful. I was a stay-at-home mom and in the dreaded mom jeans and t-shirt rut. Folks, it wasn’t pretty. It didn’t matter how much Vogue I read, there was no helping me. It fluctuated on and off for some time, but over the past few years, really since I turned 40, did I really grab life by the haunches and just say “I’m here. This is who I am, I’ve earned this body and face, and I know enough to be in charge of me.”
Sounds good in theory, right? Sure there are days I sit around and question everything. That makes me human. For the most part, I’m pretty confident about who I am, what I do and where I’m going. I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present.