Happy Birthday to me. I am 55 today. I’ve spent the past few
weeks dreading this day, moaning over the age, even though I always say that age is just a number and there’s no ducking it.
But this birthday, before it got here, felt big and heavy. Now that it’s
here, it feels surreal.
When my mother was 55 I was 17, in between my kids’ ages. For
many reasons that had to do with her being a single mom, we didn’t get along.
She was angry and depressed. A smoker and a drinker, sour when she got drunk,
which only took one sip of Scotch.
I left for college at 18 and never went back to her house,
not even to visit. I swore I’d never have kids. My greatest fear was ending up
like her.
But here I am: 55, happily (most of the time) married, with
two remarkable teenagers who I love more than life.
As a gift to myself, I’m not going to overthink this one. I
am blessed.
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