A couple of years ago, birthdays reached the point (in my mind, at least) where they were “hard”. I couldn’t stand the thought of getting older, or losing my youth, or seeing my life inch into territory I used to think was “so old.” And this fear got worse as life creaked closer to “that” birthday. You know the one. I celebrated it last year.
I cried the whole month before “that” birthday happened. I told my husband over and over again this would be the worst year of my life. After all, I was now old. I was no longer a kid. I had to finally grow up.
Good grief, I can be so dramatic.
This last year, the year of “that” birthday, turned out to be one of the best of my life. I ran two half marathons, then climbed Pike’s Peak (and failed). I found myself published in one book, then wrote and published another. My husband and I took a huge financial step that will secure a pretty awesome future for us and our family (and kids, if we are lucky). I traveled with my husband to LA, Palm Beach, Dallas, Colorado, and other awesome places. Somewhere high in the sky, I earned elite status with Delta (it’s an accomplishment in my book). I tackled a US military combat readiness course (and won), flew with the AWACS, hunted down horned lizards, climbed inside the AWACs Rotodome, made friends with people I never thought I would, hung out on the radio, interviewed a myriad of celebrities, and met Sacajawea’s long lost relative.
In short, this was a great year. This was a year I became more like “me.” This was a year that counted, and for that I am very thankful. I still may not want a birthday party to mark the occasion, but I’m happy for what this next year will bring. I will say this, though: it will be hard to top “that” year.