Today is my 48th birthday. It's difficult to imagine being 48. When I was 15, I couldn't picture living past 30. 30 seemed forever away. It seems forever away now. But 15 doesn't seem all that long ago when I remember sitting in my old bedroom in my orange vinyl swivel chair with the chrome base (very Star Trek Original Series, but actually used 70s furniture from the Holiday Inn where my mom worked) and my orange and white desk (same source and worse than it sounds) staring at my Tigerbeat posters of Shaun Cassidy, Parker Stevenson and Leif Garret. I can see my room, my stereo, my books, my closet doors, and I remember feeling so hopeful, so full of energy, full of ideas, ready to go after whatever was in front of me. I didn't know what was looming a year or so off and how it would knock me over, run me down, and leave me pretty much in pieces.
Yeah, 15 was good. I miss that.
I remember 35, too. 35 was pretty great, for the most part. It was good, at least, for half the year. My dad died that year, so it wasn't great the whole time, but before that happened, I'd come to some big realizations about my life and how to live it. I felt like I could handle things that had defeated me before. I had come out of the depression that descended on me after my gall bladder surgery (reaction to the anesthesia is the suspected cause) and feeling much better. I'd gone back to finish my degree. I liked 35.
And now I'm at 48, which is a much better place than 44 was, a better place than 45 or 46. Once again, coming out of a bout of The Crazy, feeling better about making some changes, trying to get back stuff that fell away. Sometimes, when I look back, it feels like I'm always having to start over -- life will be good, and then something happens and I'm back under ground trying to claw my way back to air and sunshine. Or maybe I'm constantly becoming a seed and growing into something new. I don't know. But it's my birthday and I intend to have some cake.