I can hardly believe two years has passed since I was a little bundle of stress about turning 40.
And not much has changed as the years tick up. I’m not a birthday dreader, per se. But I think it is safe to say that I love the build up to my birthday more than the actual day itself. I start counting a month out. I make lists for the cyber world in case there is a birthday fairy who wants to know my deepest wishes. I plan my birthday outfits with great care (or mighty haste, depending on what else is going on in my life). The anticipation fuels me. Then birthday eve approaches and I panic.
Except last night.
Maybe it was the excellent company to keep my mind preoccupied and the sparkling bubbles to soothe my angst. Perhaps my steely calm can be attributed to the lack of tequila shots. Or that the residual jet-lag from my whirlwind San Francisco trip and the cold I came home with left me more sluggish than normal by the end of this week. Whatever the reason, last night is the first birthday eve that did not include an emotional breakdown at some point in the evening. (I’m sure Kate and Rob, Rachel and Sandra are quite thankful for my fortitude.)
But the water has to go somewhere, so while last night the flood was dammed, today I could end droughts in several parched countries. From the early wake-up to Jack serving me breakfast in bed to the drive to and from the gym, well wishes on Facebook, a lovely rendition of Happy Birthday to you sung over the phone, my tears runneth over.
However, this afternoon, just as quickly and furiously as the tears flowed, they stopped. I’m not saying it’s rational, I’m just saying it is how it is.
And now, let the celebrating begin.