When my ship sailed away from my thirties, I raised my champagne glass, and waved cheerfully from the bridge. What else is there to do? Mine is a one-way ticket, like everyone’s. Might as well enjoy the voyage.
And most days, I do. Most days, I regard it as an adventure.
But today, out of nowhere, I felt angry about it. After a weekend of talking about self-acceptance, and seeking out the lioness within, and sitting in sheer adoration at the feet of some of my elders, part of me revolted. To hell with it, she said. To hell with lines in your forehead. To hell with the daily war on metabolism. To hell with spots on your hands. To hell with becoming invisible. To hell with time running out, and loss upon loss, and the leaving of everything behind.
To hell with it all.
I know reaching midlife beats the alternative. I do.
But it’s not always smooth sailing.