I’m freaking out a
little lot over here.
This month I’m turning … gulp … dare I even say it, let alone write it … 29 (+1).
I couldn’t do it, the number is too scary.
I know, I know, it (the ugly number I refuse to write) is still young, should I live to a ripe old age of 90, my life is only 1/3 of the way over. But damn, it’s an ugly number. I swear some days I still feel like I’m 21 or even 18, minus the few grays sprouting here and there and the crow’s feet emerging around my eyes.
I’m trying not to mourn the fact that my 20′s will no longer exist. It wasn’t a bad decade, I may not have been able to enjoy all the 20-something things that most did, like partying, clubbing or graduating college but I did get to spend that time with a man that loves me and works hard for our family. I got to raise three beautiful children that made life worth living. I was able to realize the dream of owning our own home, of going on vacations and growing up into an adult rather quickly.
My head tells me to celebrate the years, even if they are becoming a distant memory. My heart tells me to smile as it’s grown more than I ever knew could be possible. But the mirror, that jerky mirror, it tells me “damn lady, you’re getting old.”
So I’ve decided to say to hell with this 30-something stuff and I’m just going to celebrate the years ahead with a 29 plus whatever number happens to follow.
I will not spend my birthday crying, being sad or eating hoards of cake in a closet. Well, probably not. And I’ve still got till the 31st to enjoy being 29.