I turned 35 years old yesterday. Yes, it was angst-ridden, as all of my birthdays are. Yes, there were tears involved. Yes, I did mourn. I always mourn for my youth, misspent as it was. So yes, okay? There was a significant amount of tears and time spent in bed mourning my old, ancient ass. Don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t spend the entire day being wretched, but I’m going to have to fess up to quite a bit of pathetic wretchedness on my part. I hate my birthday. I always have. That’s a-whole-nother post.
However, when I woke up this morning, the morning after my 35th birthday, I woke up to a pretty damn good life. Sometimes, it can be hard to remember that you have a pretty good life when you’re busy boo-hooing over wrinkles, adult-onset acne, and the southerly migration of your butt. (That reminds me, I have got to get back into a Yoga class if I want this thing to stop its race toward my ankles!)
So anyway, when I woke up this morning, I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel older. I didn’t feel depressed. I felt happy that the depression from yesterday had passed. I felt joy at the two sleeping pre-teens on the floor in the next room. I felt comfort when Mags crawled in my bed and snuggled up next to me. And I realized… my life is a good life.
My man is a good man. My kids are good kids. And my dog is a good dog. I mean… what else can you ask for, really?
I’m 35 years old and today, my life is a good life.