This weekend is momentous in that I become the age that seems completely unreasonable, and that age is 39. It is the same age my own mother was once, and I distinctly remember her being, like, a lot more grown than me. (Read also: more responsible, more knowledgeable, more “with it” and “aware” and just…more. More better. More everything.)
I am 39.
I’m honestly just ready to head on to 40, the standard halfway point, so I can go ahead and begin my physical decline and start embracing a certain degree of insanity.
There’s so much to cram into this year! Already I’ve talked myself into a half-marathon (because everyone else has done it eighty-five Times already, and running 13 miles AFTER I turn 40 just isn’t as cool, I guess?). I’d planned on doing so many things by now. The bar was set wicked high by women like my mother and maybe also Cher, who rocked a thong–A THONG, PEOPLE, AND FISHNET STOCKINGS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD–at this age so I don’t even know what I’ve been doing with my life up until this point.
At 39, I should probably start thinking about what kind of legacy I should leave behind me. As of right now, my kids will tell my grandkids “Well, she could cook a mean pot of soup and she spent a lot of time learning the dulcimer on YouTube. She ran an 11-minute mile. I don’t know what color her real hair was.”
The pressure is on, it is for real on, and I can’t even crochet anything.
Not really worried about that but it seems like something I ought to know.
It matters not, I suppose. I love my birthday, so much. I asked for sunflowers and pan dulce and I’ve already been given delightful gargantuan lilies and a full pancake breakfast from J&W Grill. I’ll probably get to sleep in until 7:00 a.m. tomorrow too! I’m telling you life is good.
So here’s to my last pre-40 year–May I run 13 miles for no particular reason, may I master the dulcimer and move on to the bagpipes, and may I not get pregnant.