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May 18, 2008
Like it was yesterday...
So tomorrow I turn 44. Always looking for signs of hope (or doom), this
should be a good year for me. My lucky number is 8, 4+4=8, its 2008 ...
get it? Of course, something miraculous was supposed to happen on April
4th (04/04/08) but as luck would have it, the closest that I could come
to that was watching my daughter sing in a concert on April 5, so ... I
guess the REAL luck doesn't start until tomorrow. When I turn 44.
44.
w o w.
I don't feel 44. I don't think I look 44. I certainly don't think I act 44. What if I'm wrong and I'm really only 34? Maybe there was a mistake made somewhere along the way, maybe numbers were transposed, maybe I fell through a wormhole, maybe ... not. I look at my mother and I see a 75 year old lady (who, by the way, doesn't act 75). I look at my brothers and see guys in their mid-50s trying to pretend they aren't. I look at my sister and I see her heart on her sleeve and how she fights to keep everyone, and herself, together ... age is catching up to everyone.
I look at myself, though, and, for the most part, I don't see a 44 year old.
I still see the little 4 year old who stood on a stepstool next to her father to watch him shave on Sunday morning, knowing that this was the closest she would ever get to him.
I see the 14 year old sitting by the window, watching her neighborhood friends walk toward St. Anne's church for the funeral of the boy she had a crush on, unable to bring herself to join them.
I see the 24 year old in her cap and gown, graduating while planning a wedding in her head, fingers calloused from sewing glass beads on her handmade dress nervously drumming on her knee as she scans the crowd for a glimpse of her family.
I see the 34 year old sitting on the back steps of her rented house long after the kids were asleep, smoking a cigarette by the light of the full moon and drowning alone in a glass of Merlot, wondering how she would be able to keep a roof over their heads if she left him.
I don't see a 44 year old. I see that same fear of rejection, that same solitary mourning, that same overwhelmed distraction, that same resolute responsibility that I have always seen. I haven't changed. Just the calendar has.
Happy birthday to me.
44.
w o w.
I don't feel 44. I don't think I look 44. I certainly don't think I act 44. What if I'm wrong and I'm really only 34? Maybe there was a mistake made somewhere along the way, maybe numbers were transposed, maybe I fell through a wormhole, maybe ... not. I look at my mother and I see a 75 year old lady (who, by the way, doesn't act 75). I look at my brothers and see guys in their mid-50s trying to pretend they aren't. I look at my sister and I see her heart on her sleeve and how she fights to keep everyone, and herself, together ... age is catching up to everyone.
I look at myself, though, and, for the most part, I don't see a 44 year old.
I still see the little 4 year old who stood on a stepstool next to her father to watch him shave on Sunday morning, knowing that this was the closest she would ever get to him.
I see the 14 year old sitting by the window, watching her neighborhood friends walk toward St. Anne's church for the funeral of the boy she had a crush on, unable to bring herself to join them.
I see the 24 year old in her cap and gown, graduating while planning a wedding in her head, fingers calloused from sewing glass beads on her handmade dress nervously drumming on her knee as she scans the crowd for a glimpse of her family.
I see the 34 year old sitting on the back steps of her rented house long after the kids were asleep, smoking a cigarette by the light of the full moon and drowning alone in a glass of Merlot, wondering how she would be able to keep a roof over their heads if she left him.
I don't see a 44 year old. I see that same fear of rejection, that same solitary mourning, that same overwhelmed distraction, that same resolute responsibility that I have always seen. I haven't changed. Just the calendar has.
Happy birthday to me.
