Reclaiming My Birthday

Sunday is my birthday -- I will be forty-three years old.

I have had a complicated relationship with my birthday thanks to infertility -- it was always this harbinger of doom, of time running out, of reminders that I have a reproductive expiration date (or more like a "best by" date I suppose), that it is much harder to get matched with expectant parents when you are over 40, that the older we got the more we had to weigh in how old we were going to be when our child graduated high school and things like that. It sort of took joy out of celebrating my day of arrival on the planet.

It's amazing how taking all that OUT of the equation has freed up my birthday to be a celebration, and to not be sad. I am not really all that concerned with looking older -- I mean, I have a peel scheduled for Monday and I have quite the collection of skincare items, but I am not examining my face for wrinkles and contemplating injections or anything like that. I am continuing to grow out my gray hair, which is like silver highlights in my mind, and when it's all natural, then I will choose what I want to do with it.

But age, now that it is separated from my ability to reproduce or my attractiveness as a potential adoptive parent, isn't something I am ashamed of or sad about anymore.

My laugh lines and crinkles about the eyes are from moments lived and enjoyed.
My (new) worry lines across my forehead are from anxieties I've survived.
My silver highlights show that I am experienced at life, and I have stories to tell.

I may feel differently when they are less fine lines and more etched into my skin, but I'm not sure. I love Helen Mirren for being glamorous but also confident in the reality of her age, and for posting a "getting-ready-for-the-Oscars" selfie that was her with NO makeup, NO eyebrow filling in, wet hair... and it said, "What, you thought any of this was natural?" I LOVED HER SO MUCH FOR THAT.

Now I am free to celebrate my birthday for what it is -- another trip around the sun, another chance to do the things I love or aspire to do, the gift of more life to live. I love being in my forties, now that it's not a scary dead end, a boogeyman of the race against time. I don't love how my body seems to find new ways to torture me, but I do love that I've gotten rid of the organ that's caused me the most pain. Happy birthday to me; RIP Uterus.

I'm looking forward to a fairly low key weekend. I am seeing the matinee of Hamilton tomorrow after lunch with a friend, then having my dinner out with Bryce (hopefully sitting in the auditorium theater for several hours won't render me useless), then on my actual birthday having a glorious 90 minute massage, a visit from my mom and stepfather, and a homemade dinner from Bryce of the Roasted Buttermilk Chicken from Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat by Samin Nosrat. If you haven't looked at the beautiful book or watched the four-part Netflix series, go do it. After watching the series, twice, I feel like Samin is another person who needs to be at the Dinner Party and I want her to be best friends with me. Especially when, upon experiencing the Parmesan cheese cave in Italy, she says, "I just want to stay here forever, and eat cheese until I die."

I'm sure there will be naps in there, especially as Saturday doesn't sound all that low-key. Hey, we bought the tickets before my hysterectomy was scheduled. We are in the wayyy nosebleed section (as in, I'm pretty sure there's no one behind us but wall), but it will still be amazing and thrilling and beautiful.

So there it is, 43, in just two days. A celebration of living a life I love, of leaving behind a time when my increasing age felt like stamps of failure in my family-building passport, and just enjoying What Is. Because what is is pretty damn good.