Today I turn 32, which is kind of a weird birthday–not a landmark decade-change or even the mark of half a decade, just somewhere in the nebulous in-between years. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling a little weird about it.
I remember turning thirty, which began with an ice cream machine and included a wonderful dinner organized by one of my dearest friends at a lovely restaurant in one of my favorite places in Baltimore. That summer my sister and I had chaperoned a trip to London, and I was feeling pretty content with my place in the world and in my life.
Last year, when I turned thirty-one, my dear husband surprised me with another lovely dinner, and I felt like I was stepping through a new gateway, marked by beginning my first year in full-time work, and excited about what might be on the other side.
This year, I’m trying to avoid having the Forty…..Someday moment from When Harry Met Sally…., a movie I’ve probably seen forty times. I’ve had a nasty head cold, accompanied by sore throat, fever and laryngitis, for over a week, so I’m not feeling very festive. My first year of full-time work was tumultuous to say the least, composed of solid blocks of frantic frenzy punctuated by amazing highs and unbloggable lows. Now I’m gearing up for a year that is starting off a bit frenzied already, since my schedule grew by a class, and one that is a bit intimidating at that. Did I mention that I’m also co-leading the girls’ Brownie troop for the first time?
And my children are thrilled to be starting third grade, and my husband is taking some exciting classes this next year, and I’m actually excited about the new class and the Brownies and all of it. Really. And I love my job, and we rearranged some furniture and bought some slipcovers, and I love my house, my own little nest here at home.