Today I turn 45.
Even with super long life expectancies, I’m guessing that this means that, at this point, I am officially moving into the second half of my life.
45 doesn’t feel that different from 44 which wasn’t that different from 43 and so on and so on.
Yet, 45 feels quite different from 35 and oh so much different from 25.
At 45, I don’t worry so much if people like me because I like me.
At 45, I see a baby and I pick it up and hold it and snuggle it and kiss it and love it and then I give it back and no longer feel the emptiness in my arms and wish for “just one more.”
At 45, I haven’t been to the hair salon in ages to cover up the gray because I kinda like those silver strands that are peeking in and feel like I’ve earned them.
At 45, while I am working hard to get in shape, it is only so that I can be healthy enough in the second half of my life to do all the things I have yet to experience.
At 45, I realize that “in shape” doesn’t mean “bikini-ready.”
At 45, I regret nothing I have ever done and only regret the things I was never brave enough to do.
At 45, I treasure my friends that have been with me since I was a child and I love the friends I have made as an adult.
At 45, I recognize how precious it is to have been married for 18 years to someone I have known for 29 years and still likes me anyway.
At 45, I enjoy my kids.
At 45, I realize my house doesn’t have to be perfect to invite a slew of people over. It’s the people that matter. Not the building.
At 45, I realize that I am an acquired taste and not everyone is going to like it and I will not apologize for being me.
At 45, I’m happy to be 45 because 45 is so much more than so many people ever get to see.
At 45…not every day, because let’s be real…but today, at 45, I am happy.
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