On being bad at birthdays

I’m going have a moment of honesty, here: I’m bad at birthdays. Really bad. I’m not at all an “I’m growing older with grace and appreciation” kind of gal. I’m more of a duck-and-cover, avoid the truth, “point me to your best anti-wrinkle cream” kind of gal. Though I’m certainly invested in developing the poise and gratitude toward aging that others around me seem to embody, I’m not there yet. I’ve never, ever been a natural at accepting myself as I am.   

And yet. When I stop to pause, when I look beyond the number and the achy joints and the new-and-already-deep eleven lines between my eyes, some of the changes that these past years have brought, I would not give back, not for anything. One point of development has been finding better ways to balance empathy with self-respect and assertiveness; in other words, I’m less likely to sacrifice my beliefs or needs to stay in others’ good graces; more likely to stick to my principles and have a dialogue or conflict about them if needed. Simultaneously, I’m more invested than ever in making the world better and kinder, one small action at a time. 

Maybe most importantly, I’m starting to own and honor what I am and accept what I’m not. I am moody. I am caring. I can be flaky and inconsistent despite having good intentions. My working memory isn’t good, so I will tell you the same story that I told you yesterday—but hopefully, it still makes you laugh. I am not a great hostess, but I am an okay bearer of random gifts and food. I have limits, physically and emotionally, and some of them are new. And finally, finally, I am accepting that I am not everyone’s type, and this is utterly okay, and in fact good. Being selective with who I pour my effort into is adaptive, both for me and for others—yet importantly, I can be kind and gracious to people even if we aren’t destined to be BFF. 

I am a writer. I am an activist. 

I am human. 

I’m 36. 

And if the price of the knowledge I now have at 36 was growing another year older, then so be it. Slowly, slowly I will learn to make peace with this process.

But I probably won’t be there by 37.