Tortie Mix
I slept 12 hours last night. Maybe that's the solution?
My birthday was this past Monday. I'm not going to lie -- I had a rough time with this one. If you ask my family, I typically consider all of April to be my birthday month, or at least demand celebrating the entire birthday week. This year, though, I found myself not only forgetting that my birthday was approaching, but also unable to come up with my age. I had to actually do the math, and if you know me even the tiniest bit, you know the gravity of that statement. Shit was bleak, y'all.
The day between a fabulous celebration with my family (and all of the steak and martinis I could consume) and my actual birthday was spent mostly... prone. In bed, on the couch, in the tub. I couldn't muster the energy to be upright. Something about this year (*mutter* rhymes with tortie mix) was a hot poker to my brain. Like so many of my friends and women at this time of life, I don't recognize myself. Gone is the goofy, silly girl who had no problem getting dressed for a night out and who could stay awake the whole weekend without needing a nap. Gone is the woman who felt zero trepidation about going to bed in the evening because she had no doubt she would sleep through the night. Gone is the confident person who could rattle off facts and meaningful statements, only to replaced by this thing that can't remember the word for the kitchen appliance that makes the whirrrrrrrrr sound. (Blender, by the way. It's a blender.)
I haven't given up, but I'm working on accepting -- at least a little bit -- this version of myself. I'm trying to appreciate the good things about her: she honestly does not care what people think about how she looks when she goes to Trader Joe's; she happily doles out compliments to strangers (to the horror of her daughter); she knows how to whip up a tasty dish solely on knowledge of ingredients and cooking techniques. And she has the incredibly important love of some of the most amazing people in the world (and maybe a couple of other folks).
We have had the utter pleasure of seeing Mary Beard -- historian extraordinaire -- give two lectures, and I can't wait for the third tonight. Never having had the pleasure of hearing her speak before, I'm struck by her ability to be completely herself. No pretense. No trickery. Just her presenting her work and her thoughts for all to see, and not giving one single care if anyone doesn't like it. She likes it.
So I will enter my late 40s (dear lord) channeling Mary Beard and all of her zero-fucks-given attitude. And instead of thinking I have to mourn the person I used to be, I'm going to hold up the person I've become.