I received a handmade birthday card from my guy this morning. At the bottom of it, he writes "You're 43!" and alongside there is a self-portrait of a quaking man, with the words "I'm next!"
"Erm, actually, I'm 44," I tell him. His eyes widen (and if you knew his looks, he has classic, narrow, almond-shaped Asian eyes, so the wide-eyed look is, in and of itself, pretty darned tootin' funny ... ) so I continue, "You know what comes after 44?"
He shakes his head, pleading, don't say it ...
"45. And you know what follows 45?"
He shakes his head wildly, madly.
Aging bothers me not at all. I like myself better every year that I practice the good habits I have learned over time, and drop the ones that bring me no pleasure. I also am so flawed that I am quite certain that I will have plenty to work on for the rest of my life, regardless of how short or long it is. And I am incredibly grateful to have made it through some really tough years to get to this day, this month, this year.
I can wait for 50, and I can wait for 45 too. I have plenty to accomplish at 44. Starting with baking my birthday cake and cooking our dinner. But I think I'll leave cleaning my house for tomorrow. I am hoping to have it under control by the time my much younger husband turns 44 ... I've got till October.