Living in the Middle Ages

I feel as though I’ve turned a corner recently. I ordered some comfort shoes recommended by my doctor. My body has decided to stop agreeing with things like coffee after 10:00am and more than one cocktail per sitting. People are calling me “ma’am” more.

I’m less than a month from my birthday and I’m feeling a bit unsettled about turning another year older. This is not a milestone birthday. I’ve already hit 21, 30, and 40. This is is 44 and it feels odd. It feels mature, adult, responsible, slightly boring…old(er). I feel that I’m these things. I feel that I might be a little less bright, a little less magnetic, a little less…young.

I don’t remember stressing out over any of those previous milestones. I do remember being a bit weirded out by turning 27. My feelings then were not dissimilar to now. Adult. Mature. Not so young anymore. Not able to use youthful ignorance as an excuse. My glow a bit more dull.

I am now the adult in the room. For better or for worse, I am older, wiser, and more self aware. I am better able to process my emotions and feelings. I am better able to respond to the needs of others. I am better able to cultivate relationships and choose to spend time doing what is meaningful to me. I am more than willing to release the crap in my life, both physical and emotional.

And still, the prospect of getting close to checking a new age range box is a bit strange, a bit unwelcome.

Deep breath. I am looking forward.

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