I turned 41 today.
Who knew 41 could feel so young?
Who knew I’d still know so little about the meaning of life?
Who knew I’d still have so many doubts and insecurities?
Who knew I’d still often feel like I’m just “playing house”?
Who knew I’d still get zits and blackheads like a teenager?
Who knew I’d still dream about “what I’m gonna do when I grow up”?

41 feels anticlimactic after 40. Last year there was a big party to celebrate. There was a new nose-piercing to mark the day. There was a jump out of an airplane to prove I’m still young and very much alive and haven’t lost my risk-taking abilities.

Today there is little other than an occasional “happy birthday” greeting or phone call, a supper with Marcel’s family, and an afternoon of quiet and perhaps even boredom. The weather’s unpleasant, two people in the family are sick, and there’s not much to do that can be done inside and doesn’t cost much money. I think I’ll go curl up under my blankie and read a few pages until my eyes drift shut.

Maybe I AM getting old if an afternoon nap is a suitable way to spend a birthday afternoon.

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