tâ€™s been a couple of weeks since Iâ€™ve had time/energy/willpower to sit down and write something. The pace of life being what it is, Iâ€™ve spent my free moments centering myself rather than documenting the blur.
I turned 40 on September 10. I had made some noise a while back about some sort of party to mark the milestone, but as the date approached the idea seemed less and less attractive. The angst that had surrounded 39 has long since passed, as have many things over the past yearâ€“miles, people, means of employment. But when 16 ten-year-old soccer players sang happy birthday over a plastic tray of candle-lit cupcakes, it was just right.
My mother said, â€œYouâ€™ll like the 40sâ€“you donâ€™t need to prove anything to anyone anymore.â€ And sheâ€™s right. My early-thirties obsession with ladder-climbing has long past; if anything, the professional trevails of the past year have taught me to sieze back my life from work in any way I can.