This is 39? I stumbled across this article yesterday. Few articles make my hair stand up but this one? It did. You see, I’m 39. And I don’t feel old or like I am squinting. I don’t feel like I am too cool to be friends with Taylor Swift. And I certainly don’t feel like I could be her mother. I’ve been talking about yoga pants since my 20s. This isn’t new to year 39, I just can afford better ones even though I still often pick the ones in the juniors section at Target. Let’s be real here, no one REALLY needs 98.00 leggings. It shouldn’t even be a thing. And that it is a thing is the reason we’ve all coined “first world problems”.
Most of my people are still married. I only know one person going through a divorce. And she’s lucky. Because he’s a douche bag and she deserves better. My sister is divorced but by no fault of her own. It doesn’t count because it’s nothing she could have done to prevent it. Not that you should ever have to justify a divorce. My closest friend loves her husband more every day…. and I still love mine, despite really tough few years. I can’t imagine a divorce. I can’t imagine our family every other weekend and on Thursdays. I could and still would hang out with Carrie Bradshaw… I am the Samantha on some days and others, I am Miranda. She is not younger than me. She never was. We all are getting older together. But by no means is 39 old.
I am not getting ready to bury my parents. My mother isn’t even 60 and my husband’s parents are nowhere close to old folks home. We have a 95-year-old Grandma who’s pretty kick ass. She’s not even old. Who the hell defined old anyway?
I’m nowhere near old and this? This is my 39.
This is the year I let go. I took moments, days even entirely for myself. Sometimes those “self” days were with my children at an amusement park and sometimes? They were in the YMCA, alone, sweaty and angry, followed by the amazing endorphin rush and a few moments watching kids splash in the pool before I hurried home. It’s the year I dyed my hair blue and started my sleeve. This is the year I started saying exactly what I was thinking. It was the year I stopped believing that anyone else was in control besides me. It is the year I felt the calm in the storm and the year I realized it really doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about me. I decided to do more in year 39. I’ve slowly been studying to be a doula. Surprisingly, I signed up to be a Pound Pro. I make things. I wear clothes I never would have before. I am no longer embarrassed that I’m not the textbook beauty. I am beautiful in my own way; even on the days that I forget it. But I am beautiful inside. And while I am loud and sometimes mean, the core is good. Even when the outside is snarky or angry.
Year 39 was the year I went to a concert again. And road a rollercoaster for the first time in forever. It’s the year I felt good in a swimsuit and that I made things that I loved instead of what I thought people would love. It’s the year I started reading again. And learning and loving. It’s the year I figured out that we need a village and that women support women. They don’t hurt them, stab them or mistreat them. The Red Tent should be a thing; sans the religious bullshit. It’s the year I figured out a lot of people use God as a guise to be cruel… it’s the year I lost faith but without sadness or mourning. And that taught me to trust my gut. When things don’t “feel” right, listen. Your gut is often on point. Mine always has been.
I will say, she finished her article with excitement about 40. So, I’ll toss the grace bone. But to those 39s out there that are remembering like this person was in their article, keep in mind that it’s not the end, the middle or the beginning. It just is. Enjoy it. I’d hate to be the early 30s again. I felt awful most of that decade. This is better. I know who I am and I am not clinging to the past either. 39 is good. Real good.