Thoughts on turning 39.....

I am turning 39 tomorrow.  I have never had a hard time with aging, and actually am kind of looking forward to 40.  It is sort of an “I am woman, hear me roar” age.  At 40, you pretty much are who you are going to be, and it is time to stop apologizing and own it.

Turning 40 is kind of like a colonoscopy – the procedure itself is not really that big of a deal, but the prep sucks.  This year – 39 – is my prep.

I can barely remember twenty, but I know that my life looks nothing like what I dreamed about then. At twenty, I was pretty sure that forty was nothing but a downhill slide to fat thighs, droopy boobs, and a pressing need to know when canned cat food is on sale at the dollar store. 

At twenty, I obviously needed a good slap in the face.

What I didn’t know then – and I wouldn’t have believed it anyway - was that I would have heartaches so deep that I would never recover, and moments of joy so wondrous that they would take my breath away.  Those moments would not come from sweeping adventures, but simply from living my life.

The weight of my experiences has settled into my hips and thighs as expected, but I like to think it keeps me grounded in my own wisdom.  Joy has crinkled my eyes, and I have “sun kisses” across my nose and cheeks. I have scars, both visible and invisible, that have healed and hardened to make me almost unbreakable.

I don’t really have regrets, but I do wonder what happened to that young woman who thought that there was so much time and limitless potential.  I never dreamed that I would settle in to domesticity so early and stay there, unquestioning, for the next 19 years.

I got married, bought a house, added dogs and cats – and then kids – to our family. I learned to say “no”.  I tended to plan, to be practical, to put limits on life.  I always thought that “later” I would take more risks; to be more present, love more freely, express my feelings more openly. 

With each year that passed, I bound myself more tightly with my notions of what “responsible” and “successful” looked like.  Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to say yes.

So, at 39, I have one year to make myself the woman that I can embrace at 40. 

Last week, in the perfect synchronicity of the Universe, my yoga teacher gave a talk about the Hindu God, Ganesha.  He is depicted with an elephant’s head and many arms.  My first thought was, “Great – look at all those arms, wasted on a man…..As a mom, I could REALLY have made good use of those!”.  And then, I noticed the central set.

Ganesha holds one hand out, palm upright, hand open to receive.  “Bring it on!”, he seems to say.  On the opposite side, the hand is depicted with the palm facing out, arm straight.  “But, let me choose what I keep.”  It is the dynamic tension of both yes, and no.

This year is about the hard work of excavating the hope and possibility of being twenty, then integrating that into the grounding and strength of being forty.   

It begins with saying yes.

Redefining Success

It has been one month and one day since my employment contract ended, and I am beginning to understand how people who are unemployed become depressed.  I used to think it was about the loss of income and financial strain, but lately I have been rethinking that.

Let me be very clear – this situation is of my own choice.  I was not let go, downsized, asked to reconsider my employment or any other politically correct way of saying that I was fired.  I was emotionally and physically exhausted, and it was just time for a change.  I didn’t know how long it was going to take for me to recover so I made the choice to end my contract.

Turns out, it took about a month. 

The joy I found in sleeping in, wearing my pajamas until noon, and “catching up” on those ignored household tasks wore off in the first two weeks.  When I did finally decide to put on a pair of jeans, they were a bit snug due to the open door policy on the pantry. 

I did move on from “catching up” to “mindfulness” about week three.  I decided that I was going to do the hard work.  I would find myself.  I would find Zen in the laundry room.  I would do yoga and journal every day.  I would become the person I was always meant to be.

That also lasted about two weeks. 

I am definitely learning something about myself.  I actually NEED to work.  No matter how hard I try, I do not have the domestic gene.  I really wanted to find bliss in caring for my family.  I wanted to have my kids come home to freshly baked cookies on a pretty plate in the clean kitchen.  Is it Wednesday?  Laundry day- clean pressed sheets for everyone!  Thursday?  How about I greet you at the door with freshly done hair and a perfect dry martini?  Friday is lunch with the girls, and a stop at the market for fresh bread and a pot roast for dinner……

I love vintage sofas and kitchen appliances, but vintage décor just doesn’t make the housewife.  I can’t cook – I quit trying years ago – and I don’t think we have had dinner at 5 since the kids started school.  I have taught my children the fine art of shaking a shirt really hard to get most of the wrinkles out when pulled from the bottom of a laundry basket.  And, my hair, well I am surprised that I do not have a bald spot on the back of my head where it rubs on the headrest in the car since that is where I seem to spend most of my time.

I wouldn’t call myself a complete domestic failure, but I am pretty close.  Working has always given me an out – a place where I could feel successful.  I may not “get” the crock pot, but I know how to run a mean meeting.  I am at a loss when my 9 year old slams her door and screams that she hates me, but I can diffuse and soothe the most irate professional with ease. 

I am currently working to find new successes to replace the old, and constantly adjusting my expectations.  For me, it is an accomplishment to get the house clean, the errands run, and the dog walked and still get the kids picked up on time.  If I can work in a couple of business contacts, even better.