I was thinking about birthdays this morning, and how often where you are in life is a feature of how you feel about birthdays.
Generally, I’ve not been one of those people upset about growing older. In fact, half the time, because my birthday is in August, when I do the math throughout the year to determine my age, I think I’m older than I am anyway. In my mind, I’ve been 46 for half the year already, so what’s another day?
But, having said that, the year I turned 29 was a miserable year. At 29, not only was I not dating, I had no immediate prospects of dating. That all changed a few short months later when I started dating the man that I would eventually marry. In 1997, turning 29, I couldn’t see that on the horizon. By 1998, mid-year, I was engaged, and, by April 1999, I got married. (Somewhere along the way I left Athens, GA and moved to Greenville, SC, but that’s another journey for another day)
If I could talk to my 29-year old self, I would tell her to be patient. I still remember her frustration and disappointment, but I would tell her that love will come, and when it does, it will leave her breathless.