I just turned 42 years old and I did it in Paris.
I don’t love celebrating my birthday. My parents didn’t make it a big deal and I’m pretty sure my father thinks it’s on a different day. I’m dramatic and self-indulgent in so many ways, but not about my birthday. I hate birthdays. But, I read somewhere that hating growing older makes you more likely to die earlier, so I lie to myself that I’m fine with my birthday. I love birthdays.
What hasn't changed about birthdays for as long as I've had them is how I think to myself, "Do I feel this age? Younger? Older?"
I feel this age, 42. It feels both young and old, at the same time. It feels knowing and wanting, vibrant and tired. It feels not like a start, but not like a finish either. It feels like a dime, not a nickel or penny, but not a quarter or 50 cents piece. It feels almost like an eagle - years beyond a sparrow but many, many years before an owl.
42 is introducing my daughter to Madonna and realizing my dad introduced me to Buddy Holly when he was my age and I was hers. At 42, I'm the one who makes the sandwich that has that homemade delicious sandwich smell and taste. 42: My face feels heavy in the morning, my knuckles get soy-swollen, my cynicism is being fed by the hard-to-find truth in the world and my belly is fuller, which is a fine thing.
42 is being grateful - for all that I've experienced and the stuff I've yet to. At 42, curiosity burns stronger than ever: What will that stuff be?
It's my birthday candle wish to find out what that stuff will be.
Eat, rest and love your people -