My Birthday

I turned 38 last week.

My husband and friends gave me a wonderful party.  Filled with all the things that I love.  A house full of friends, children, and good food. 

I wasn’t allowed to do anything.  Which was a little strange at first.  Not hosting.  But then I embraced it and it turned into one of the most relaxed birthdays I’ve ever had.  I had a couple people tell me how relaxed I looked.  I didn’t even get to tell people where to put food they brought.  I went so far as to ask people to bring me drinks because, after all, it was my birthday.   

Birthdays are a wonderful thing.  They really are.  (Even if I sometimes have bad luck with them.  I have a strange habit of getting sick on my birthday.  I can’t explain it.)

But the moment I turned 35, birthdays got a little weird. 

I started getting “age” comments.  Comments about “not getting any younger”, about needing to dye my hair, about how wonderful it was to not looking my “age”, and people avoiding saying how old I was. 

35, people.  It started at 3 – freaking – 5.

This is where I could very easily start blaming people.  I could blame society.  I could blame Hollywood.  I could even blame men.  But I’m not going to.  Blame them that is. 

I blame us.  Women.  I blame me.    

When my husband gave his toast to me at this recent birthday, he fudged over my age.   I had a friend at the party ask how old I was, followed immediately by “if you don’t mind telling me”.  I even got a birthday card from family saying the birthday number doesn’t matter just the ‘happy’.

And I didn’t call them on it.  They weren’t being inappropriate.  In fact, they were being considerate because age has turned into a ‘sensitive subject’.  Aging has become something to skate over, to avoid, to dread. 

Now, in some ways, I can see that.  The fear of losing memories, losing physical independence, even losing your mind?  That can’t be easy.  And I’m so blessed to have people in my life that communicate openly about aging and all of the hard stuff that goes with it.  But also all of the great stuff that goes with it. 

Again, I could throw blame around, and people do, but I’m going to take responsibility for that blame in my life. 

We have allowed this to happen.  We have allowed an expiration date to be placed on us.  We have allowed outside influence to determine what aging should be like.  To look like.  We’ve allowed our own insecurities to turn living longer into something to hide. We have done this.  Women.  We have done this to ourselves.  We’ve allowed it to take place. 

But again, I shouldn’t be blaming anything outside of myself. 

I’ve allowed it to take place.  I’ve allowed this to happen. 

I had the urge at my party to shout my age and declare it great.  But I didn’t.  I’m not really sure why.  Maybe because I was a little tipsy and didn’t want to really be a spectacle.  Maybe because I was embarrassed and didn’t want to embarrass anyone else.  Or maybe…

I don’t know.  I didn’t do it. 

But I should have. 

I love how old I am.  I really do.  My 30s have been the best decade of my life.  My marriage is the best it has ever been.  My children are past babies and can wipe their own bottoms, buckle themselves into the car, and get their own cups of water.  (HALLELUJAH)  I know who I am now and what I want to do and am comfortable with any of that changing.  I’m also in the best place confidence wise concerning my appearance and my mental health. 

And I’ve been told that the 40s are even better.  By women I trust and admire. 

I am not going to hide from my age.  I’m not going to be secretive about it as if the higher the number gets, the less fun I am.  Or the less right I have to hang out with younger friends.  Or the less beauty I possess.  Or the less worth I have. 

I know that as that number continues to climb, this might get harder.  I might become self conscious of how many years I’ve spent on this planet.  (I don’t think, by the way, that this has ANYTHING to do with dying your hair.  It’s your hair; keep it whatever color you want.)  I might get a little sad about certain numbers turning over on my physical and mental odometer.  And I don’t think that’s bad. 

I DO think it’s bad to live there.  But not to experience those emotions.  I pray I continue to have friends and family that will help me acknowledge them, process them, and then move on and get back to living.

I’m taking responsibility for this in my life.  I won’t allow my age to be treated like something that needs to be kept secret.  Like something that should be hidden away.  Or like something that indicates my life is coming to its end.   (I mean, that’s not only dumb, but incredibly disrespectful to those that have made it so much longer.)

Age should be treated like climbing a ladder.  And you don’t get to start climbing till you’re 22 because before that, I don’t know if you can really be trusted on the ladder. 

There’s nothing impressive about being on the lower rungs of a ladder.  It’s the height that is impressive.   When you see someone up at the top. 

That’s my goal.  To celebrate how high up the ladder I am.  To celebrate with those that are above me and marvel at the heights they’ve achieved.  And to encourage those further down than I am.  To let them know that the air is great, the view phenomenal, and the climb awesome. 

Just today, I read in the paper about a woman who had the same birthday as me but she was born 64 years before I was.  She turned 102. Now THAT is a height on the ladder that everyone can admire.  Can you imagine climbing through ten decades?!  The stories she must have.  The things she's seen.  The babies she’s held.  The number of prayers that she’s sent to Heaven.  The friends she’s helped.  The strangers she’s been a balm to.  The volume of food she’s cooked and served and enjoyed.  The amount of cake she’s eaten. 

Those are life goals. 

I am 38.  38.  Maybe a little louder for some?

 I AM 38 YEARS OLD.

And I love it.