On Birthdays.

Why are birthdays hard? Is this all a social construct to remind us (women) of ticking clocks? Of impending wrinkles and worsening vision? Is it nature's little annual jab to the ribs?

Or. Or is it just me? Maybe this is my own way of seeing how I measure up to the person I thought I'd be.

Let's go with that. I'm not where I thought I'd be by 30. (Are you? Are any of us?) I thought I would be three things that I'm not. 1. Somewhere else (not my hometown). 2. A wife. 3. A mother. Those feel like big failings in my own little black book. Now its not impossible that all three of these might still happen, but in my well-planned, reasonable life calendar they would have happened already.

There are other things, however, that I'm pleased to find have happened by 30. 1. I'm in the best relationship I could ever imagine (I don't think I ever imaging that I could actually be this open and honest and true to myself - and still be loved). 2. I'm successful. 3. I'm independent.

In many ways the things I have accomplished are more important, offer more contentment and are more sustainable than the things I've yet to do. So why are birthdays this hard?

Maybe its biology... my eggs are drying up, my skin isn't quite so luminous and my hands have wrinkles (never expected that would happen so soon). It is strange, no, how young we are when aging begins. Maybe that's what is so surprising.

Or maybe, I need to just grow up and get over it. Maybe on my birthday I'm thinking too much about myself. (Always been wary of people with a propensity for that.)

So here's to accepting birthdays like any other day. To accepting age gracefully and to being thankful, every day, for being lucky enough to be happy and loved.

Yeah. Take that birthday.