39 is the new 45

My birthday is on the second-to-last day of the year. Yes, that’s right: I was a two-day-old tax deduction. This year on that day I will be 45 years old, and you have no idea how difficult it is for me to admit that fact. I don’t know why that should be; after all, most people who know me know how old I am, even if most of them say I don’t look it (bless you, darlings). There may still be secrets left in the world, but when you run races and your finish times are constantly being posted online, there’s no hiding how old, how slow, and how crazily obsessed you are.

While it is difficult to admit my age, in these nearly 45 years I’ve come to an understanding about difficult things.

The 45^th year of my life did not start particularly well. That is all I have to say about those first few months, because a lot of other things followed them.

I ran my first ultra marathon. And my second. And my third.

I saw the publication of my first book. I shared my joy in this achievement in the best way possible, with the best people possible.

And now there’s this cute boy. I walk around with a big stupid smile on my face these days.

I suppose I could conclude that good things come to those who wait, and the sweetness of them is even better because they’ve come after bitterness. That’s true, but I still can’t in good conscience dole out the platitudes without hedging myself first. The best may be yet to come; so may the worst. Things will happen, and you will enjoy them, suffer them, get through them, revel in them, wish they had never happened, wish they would never end. Whatever age you are, things are going to happen to you, things you won’t expect. That means you’re alive. Happiness does not define life; experiences do.

I’ve had nearly 45 years of experiences. I am looking forward, in every sense, to what happens next.