The Eve of 41

This is impossible.  I can not possibly be sitting here, insomnia ridden, listening to the hum of the clothes dryer, on the eve of my 41st birthday.

It’s ridiculous to me that another year has passed with nothing to be excited about, to brag or even journal about. Not a single thing has changed – for better or worse – not one thing.

Embarrassingly, I used to be one of those girls who counted down to my birthday, announcing to everyone the number of days left to shop for a gift for me or to remind them of my very own special day.  Truthfully, I think I wanted this “special day” since everyone who has a holiday birthday – a December holiday birthday especially – knows how “ripped off” we feel.  Either no one remembers your birthday, or they lump it in with Christmas and you’re left feeling jilted.  New Years Eve, I’ve always thought, was the worst, since no one is ever there ONLY for your birthday, they are there to party into the new year!

I remember the days leading up to my 30th birthday and how, in the midst of a divorce, I felt like a monstrous failure.  I had nothing and was humiliated beyond measure. I could not fathom the idea of turning 30. My sister orchestrated a huge party – of mostly her friends if I’m being honest – and though a good time was had by all, I recall being very coherent of the fact that I was now 30, that I had few friends and that my life – as I knew it to be – was ending.

I remember the months and weeks preceding my 40th birthday.  It was not so much the number of the age as it was the number of the age of the year that my life’s dream had ended.  I would begin my 40th year on this earth knowing I’d never be a Mom.  I was angry (still am) and I begged people not to acknowledge the day, which of corse, they did.  Which annoyed & angered me even more. Though my sweet husband planned a get away that was relaxing & wonderful, I came away from the birthdate hurt and sad and full of resentment about how my life was turning out and the theme has carried on throughout the year.

This birthday has snuck up on me.  I still feel incredibly sorry for myself for the one thing I can not change.  Jilted at the hand I’ve been dealt.  I truly could care less about acknowledging, much less celebrating my birthday, outside of receiving a card from my hubby since he does not express much throughout the year and with the piggy back of Christmas & my birthday, I get a good spirit boosting from getting sweet cards from him.  He writes the sweetest things and chooses the sweetest cards. It’s like oxygen at a time I struggle finding reasons to breathe.

I can not believe I’ll wake tomorrow a whole other year older than today.  I’d rather crawl in a dark hole and sleep, hopefully waking 10 years ago, but instead of the girl who counted down to celebrate her special day, I’ll awake as the middle aged woman who counts down the moments until it passes, politely saying “thank you” to anyone who offers cheers.


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