Old No. 33

Unbeknownst to me as a young person, there's this thing in North America called a "Golden Birthday".  It's the day when your age matches the physical day of the month you were born.  I was born on the 15th of January, which made my 15th birthday my Golden Birthday.  In some places, a Golden Birthday is a big deal.  I suppose I can claim mine as a 'big deal' but not in a particularly positive light.  

I still remember going to bed the night of my 15th birthday so hurt and angry at my family.  I fell asleep thinking, "They MISSED it!  Completely.  Entirely.  They missed my birthday."  

I specifically remember the grocery store check out, the vantage of my mother writing out a check to give to the store clerk to pay for groceries when she wrote "Jan. 19" and paused.  She looked at me and asked what we did for my birthday.  Yep, she realized she'd missed it, but tried to play cool and asked what "we" had done.  

That was the first of many birthdays to be forgotten and by the time I was turning 21, the legal age of drinking and "adulthood" in the States, I just wanted to crawl under a rock and let my birthday pass unnoticed.  The whole idea of something that's supposed to be important, but ends up not being important, to me, was the most depressing thing.  I didn't tell people, didn't get excited, everything was all about managing my expectations and the inevitable let-down.  I spent YEARS with the idea that if I just cared LESS, then eventually, not being remembered and celebrated would be acceptable.  

Three years ago, just before my 30th birthday, a life marker I'd been looking forward to since my first child was born, I told my husband my 30s would be "epic."  I completely forgot that "epic" doesn't always mean great and adventurous.  Homer would not describe his 'epic' journey with the same excitement and gusto as someone who had just gone on an 'epic' hot air balloon ride over the Serengeti.  I planned for the latter, I'm getting the former.  But even so, I'm claiming my 30s as something to be marked, not something to be plowed through, forgotten, wasted time between college and the rest of life.  

My 33rd birthday was Friday.  I was so tempted to fall back into familiar territory, skip over it and let everyone else off the hook for forgetting it as well.  Instead, though, I took a leap.  I decided to throw myself a party of sorts.  The kind of party that might, just might, make my soul a little happier.  

To the outside observer, my life here and now is unbelievably amazing.  I currently live in a first-rate house, overlooking the beautiful San Francisco skyline.  I've lived on three continents, have traveled all over the world, I have an amazing (and hot!) husband of more than a decade who has managed to make THREE successful careers for himself in different organizations all before his 40th birthday. I've had personal and professional success myself, all while making and raising up four of the most beautiful babies I know.  They are each kind and loving and engaging, a joy to be around... unless they're trying to put a sibling in his/her place.  But even so, standing back, my life is hands-down amazing.  Problem is, it's not the life I wanted.  Climbing Everest, surfing the Big Waves of Hawaii, trekking the Appalachian Trail, these are all epic endeavors, worthy of throwing energy and effort into.  But if it's not your dream to stand on top of Everest, when you get there, it'll still be amazing and "worthy" but it won't be something that fills your marrow with soul-satisfying accomplishment.  

In I Samuel the people of Israel argue with God that they want "A king" and God keeps coming back to them that he is "THE king."  English-teacher nerd me, that difference is massive. 

A- one of many, indifferent to which, any old one will do

THE- specific, only one in particular will do

I'm fighting to reframe my perceptions, to reorganize and recalibrate myself so that this amazing, wonderful life I'm living won't be "A life."

Friday.  The party.  My party.  The party I've been waiting to lay claim to for a long, long time.  My house was clean, garage and all.  (This mama was thrilled by that!)  My food was good.  I made things I love, Greek salad and cottage pie, a chocolate stout cake topped with candied oranges. There's nothing about any of it that Martha Stewart would say had a 'theme' but it was mine and I loved the cooking, I loved the taste and I loved feeding my friends, all moms who, like me, needed a break, needed a clean house and a satisfying meal.  We chatted, we laughed, and I promise you, I could feel my soul filling with love and joy and contentment.  I often see people reaching for something, anything to fill them.  Food. Shopping.  Kids' activities, whatever.  I wanted to reach for something concerted, intentional, deliberate... something that mattered to who I am as a person.  It may sound crazy, but the planning, the cleaning, the cooking and the baking that came before the party, the conversation, the laughing, the messy kitchen that came after the party-- these things made me deeply content.  I felt useful.  Needed.  Wanted.  Enjoyed.  Fundamentally seen as a memorable human being.  

When my mom forgot my birthday, after years and years of my father forgetting it, I felt like I wasn't important.  If not to them, then who?  Celebrating Old No. 33, with new friends, good friends, deep and meaningful friends, it helped me reclaim my own sense of value. It also helped, in many small and one very big way, for me to move from seeing my life here on the West Coast as not just a consolation life, "A Life", but as the Next Chapter in THE LIFE that is mine.