I turned 31 today. God, I remember when 31 was so far in the future that I didn’t even have the capacity to dream of what my life would be like at that age. And now it is here. I am officially “in my thirties.”
I’ve never been one to worry too much about getting older. When I was 29 and had R., I knew that my life’s purpose was defined. Since then (and really before then, because who feels old in their twenties?), I’ve been at peace with the choices I’ve made in my life and where they’ve brought me.
For some reason, I feel a little different this year, and I’m not totally sure why. Perhaps it’s because I do want to have another child, and I hear the tick-tocking of the biological clock. Perhaps it’s because I’m not as fulfilled at my job as I used to be.
When I worked in my old job, the newspaper job I hated so much it made me physically ill, I had a wonderful co-worker who always took her birthday off of work. She called that day her “personal new year” and would always do something for herself that day. I had big plans for myself today, but circumstances conspired against me. Instead of getting a hair cut and color and a massage, I spent the day grocery shopping, baking a Thanksgiving cake with R. and coloring in a Dora the Explorer coloring book.
All in all, I’m happy with where my life has led me. My almost-two-year-old can say “Happy” and “Birthday” and “Mommy,” though not all together (I just taught her “birthday” this morning!). My husband said he got me as close to the spa as he could today – with a monogrammed plush bathrobe off of Oprah’s Favorite Things list.
I’m pretty proud of what I’ve accomplished in 31 years. To me, the meaning of my life is the relationships I’ve built. And that’s what keeps me warm, even on a cold, rainy November day.