39 is better than 29.

Today is my 39th birthday. I was dreading it, but now that it’s here, it’s not feeling quite as painful as I imagined. A few weeks ago, when I was wallowing in my dread of this day, I wrote a about ignoring my birthday. Today, feeling happier, I thought I’d follow up with some good news about turning 39. In no particular order, here’s why 39 is better than 29:

I smell the roses. A decade ago, I was so busy chasing my dreams and trying to fulfill my life’s purpose, I never stopped to enjoy it. Once I reached a hurdle, there was always another one around the corner. Something else to tackle. Another goal to pursue. Now that I’ve reached the major life milestones, career, husband, family, home, I allow myself the opportunity to sit back and appreciate all the good things in my life.

Acceptance is easier. I’m more accepting of my strength and weakness. I tried for three decades to improve my weaknesses with marginal improvement. Now, I’m focusing on making my strengths shine. I am who I am, good with the bad. I have to accept that, as I’m doing more so now, than constantly trying to better myself at the sake of my sanity.

I’m more comfortable in the grey. Life for me was always black and white, highs and lows. Life revolved around drama and I thrived on it. Because without drama, life moved in the grey. The mundane, boringness of everyday life. I didn’t like being there. I wasn’t comfortable in it. I always needed ups and downs to keep me going and something to look forward to. A dinner date. A vacation. A deadline. Now, I’m more okay with just being.

I’m calmer. If you know me, that’s huge progress. To relax, to do nothing, to just be. To take things in stride. To not over think. To not dwell. To not read into something that wasn’t there. To take things at face value. To not question everything. Even when my body was still, my mind would race at every moment. Now I have more peace in my brain and in my life. Grey is a good color on me now.

I have better relationships. My connections to my family and my friends is what gives meaning to my life. My bond with those that I care about runs deep and is my lifeblood. In my teens and twenties, it was about volume, now it’s about quality.

I’m thankful. I’m thankful for every one who’s impacted my life positively and hope I let you know it. Often. Because if not today, then when? Why wait to say I love you when I’m thinking it now? Maybe I’m mushy. But I consider that one of my strengths.

It's my party, so I will cry...

My birthday is around the corner. Not a major one, just the one before the big one. The big 4-0 is taunting me. It's leering at me in the makeup mirror every time I peek. It's sneering that I can't stop the clock. Forty is going to come in just over 365 days and nah, nah, nah, nah, nah...there's nothing I can do about it.

I admit it: I'm scared shitless of getting old. I never realized it, or never really thought about it for that matter because "getting old" seemed so far away. I can look in the mirror and still see my fourteen year old self imagining myself as a grown up. Now, I look in the same mirror and can't believe this is what I was waiting for.

I want a refund. This wasn't the show I had hoped to see. I believed everyone who told me I looked so young for my age and that I always would. Maybe I do look young for my age, but inside I feel like an old soul.

It's not just vanity that drives my disdain for this birthday. No, I thought I'd have gotten so much more accomplished by this point. I remember when my 30th approached, I was so calm, cool and collected about that birthday because I had reached so many goals I had set for myself.

I had graduated college, done some traveling, was excelling in my career, happily married and on my way to owning my first home. Hitting thirty was a hurdle I leaped over with flying colors.

Maybe 40 is so hard because I don't feel like I've had any goals in the last decade. The last decade. That's a long time, ten years. One quarter of my whole life and nothing worth noting. Yes, I've had two wonderful children. I don't discount that. But having kids isn't much of a goal. It's a matter of having some perfectly timed sex. Plus, my body is so fertile like the banks of the Nile, Maverick's sperm just needed to be dusted over my willing-and-able slutty egg to reproduce. My egg hung out the red light and screamed that my uterus was open for business. So, even that was not much of an accomplishment of a personal nature.

And if you still need more justification, my big 4-0 present to myself is a surgery. Not fun botox or lipo, or even a tummy tuck. No, I get to treat myself to a full hysterectomy. Say goodbye to my uterus and other lovely women parts. Say hello to heat flashes, and hormone therapy. Oh, can't wait to meet that sexless, hairless, vaginally dry woman! She'll be a blast.

My point is, if it's my party, I will cry. I really don't want to acknowledge this birthday,or even the next one for that matter. I'd like it to pass over and not exist. Like an off-leap year. It's much more fun celebrating my friends' birthdays. Especially for the ones who are older than me.

Losing ourselves

As little girls, women dream of a life like Cinderella. Not the rags and housework part, but the dream of meeting our Prince Charming and living life happily ever after. Each of our versions may be somewhat different but collectively, we all wish to find happiness and fulfillment one day when we wed our true love and become a Mrs.

Then there’s other fairy tale of the house with the white picket fence, an adoring husband and two lovely children. Again, the stories we’re fed as children fuel this desire to have a perfect life. How often we sung the song of “…k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes so-in-so in the baby carriage!”

Unfortunately, our mothers did not do a proper job of filling in the blanks. Perhaps it was the Mean Stepmother’s story: the one that teaches us that oftentimes, in our quest to fulfill these childhood fantasies of what married life with children would be, we lose ourselves along the way.

We’re so consumed with our work, our home, our husbands, and our children that we squash any sense of self. There’s just no time left in the day for us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve noticed a wrinkle in the mirror and wondered how long it had been there. God knows, who has time to look that closely in the mirror anyway?

And then after a while, we stop one day, look in the mirror and realize we don’t know who we are anymore. We know we’re “wife” and “mother” and “daughter” and “friend” but we don’t know ourselves.

It’s scary to acknowledge the fact that we let our passions (and ourselves) go. We’re consumed with filling our kid’s day with meaningful activities to uncover their passions but what about ours? We used to be dancers or painters or photographers or roller-skate queens with ambition too. We had dreams and desires. Wants and needs. But we’ve prioritized ourselves right off of the list.

Of course, when we come to this realization, it causes strife with our spouse. He can’t imagine what we’re going through because it’s just not the same for men. But the truth is, we need to find ourselves again sometimes. Take a new class. Schedule a lunch-date with a girlfriend. Read that dusty book on your nightstand. Call an old friend for a good laugh. Go for a run. Make time for YOU!

In the long run, not only is it best for us, it’s best for our kids and our marriages too. So don’t be afraid.

Carefree thrill-seekers

I fancy myself a bit of a thrill-seeker. I fantasize about jumping out of an airplane...driving a Lamborghini at 140 miles per hour…surfing a killer wave…cruising on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet…moving to Europe on a whim…or just packing up our stuff and moving to another state.

Being a working mother of two doesn't often allow the opportunity to indulge in my inner fantasies. Not to mention, the thought of actually hurting myself! But these were the dreams of a young woman. Living my life to the fullest! Testing my limits!

Somehow, as we get older, and more responsible and dependable, we let go some of our young-and-careless wishes. I don’t think it’s a conscious decision; it’s just a fact of life when reality sets in that we have to prepare lunches, commute to work, and get the groceries. We put aside what we’d like to do for what we have to do. But once in a while, wouldn’t it be nice to go back to being a carefree teenager again?

When was the last time you and your girlfriends drove around with no particular destination in mind? Remember those days in high school when you'd have a whole afternoon to do absolutely nothing but whatever felt right at the moment?

Hit the beach, maybe a game of volleyball, grab a bite to eat, visit a friend, get some ice cream, listen to your favorite song and just cruise. My friends and I would put tons of miles on my Fiero. No place was too far to drive…nothing was off-limits because we had a vehicle to take us wherever we wanted to go.

The most important item of the day was whether we had good tunes for the joyride to nowhere. Life was as simple as a sunny day, the right mix-tape and a full tank of gas. Perhaps a Diet Coke, Doritos and a pack of cigarettes too. (Because remember, this was high school...)

Thrilling back then was doing donuts in the bank park lot in your mother's car. Or spending the whole night at the beach when you were supposed to be sleeping at your friend’s house. Or having a giant slumber party at the Embassy Suites after homecoming. Or caravanning with a dozen of your best friends to Spring Break. Or sneaking out of your house at night like a CIA agent to meet your boyfriend. Or getting into a nightclub with your fake ID. And who didn’t try “dine and dash” at Denny’s at 3am at least once?

I’d even went as far as to help a friend spray paint (or “tag”) a highway sign over I-75 that read “J loves Jeff”. That was so very thrilling…not to mention dangerous and illegal. But when we were caught up in the moment, both with red, flushed cheeks of excitement, we felt very much alive and happy—no, thrilled—with living life. It was a rush, a high, that lasted several weeks, especially every time we drove underneath that sign on the overpass.

The scales of “thrilling” has changed for me over the years. Now, I’m thrilled when my first grader gets her first “A” on her spelling test. I’m thrilled when I get away once a year with my best girlfriends. I’m thrilled when the Friday night traffic on my way home is light. I’m thrilled when I score a new pair of shoes on sale.

The thrills may be a whole lot less adventurous than they used to be, but the thrills of daily life, love and family are just as much fun. I guess that’s what they call “with age comes wisdom.” The acceptance and understanding that I may not ever get to bungee jump off a bridge but I still can find excitement in my life. It’s just a matter of changing one’s perspective. Of course, though, when I’m vacationing in Hawaii later this month, you can be sure that I’ll be looking for a hand gliding adventure over a volcano or something like that. Because the glass-bottomed helicopter tour probably won’t be thrilling enough.

Sentimental junk

Every girlfriend holds on to things long past its expiration date. From a favorite pair of skinny jeans tucked away until it fits another day to that tube of pink lipstick we can’t stop wearing, sometimes it’s just so hard to say goodbye.

I’ve been chastised for this infamous “Brown Swimsuit” I used to love. It was the perfect combination—a well-fitted bottom that hid all that needed to be covered down below and an equally well-fitted top that accentuated the sisters. Apparently, it was well past its expiration date. Turned sour, really. I haven’t worn that swimsuit in more than a full year, but I’m still harassed to burn it. It’s the (I really liked it!)

The funny part is that I save not only the things I love but also the stuff that doesn’t make sense to keep. And I’m not sure why I’m such packrat, but most girls are. I’ve been known to stash a few things away in a drawer, waiting patiently to be resurrected.

Okay maybe a lot of things.

I have a drawer (or few) crammed with lip glosses, tampons, a recipe torn from a magazine, a notepad, pens in a rainbow of colors, Astroglide, several tubes of trial-sized lotions, a crayon, an appointment card from 2005, six ponytail holders, and some kids’ jewelry. Then there’s an overflowing drawer stuffed with belts and neck scarves (did anyone wear them outside of Dallas?); old costume jewelry that may come back in style in another decade or two, a scrap paper for a playdate with a mother I can’t remember, a dog collar (?), an exercise video, sparkly hair clips, at least a dozen gel inserts for my bras and oh, yeah, more tampons! (Does everyone stash them as strategically as I do around their bedrooms?) Not to mention the “Pocketbook Graveyard” cabinets either. I won’t even get into that!

Some items I’ve saved are ridiculous; it’s the lazy Tracy that forces me to save things such as the half-used tube of airline-sized toothpaste. For the flight I may take in the future, I’ll think “there’s no sense in tossing it.” Instead, I’ll stash away on my desk. It never made it back in the bathroom since the last trip. It’s here on my desk because when I put it there (laziness, remember?), I figured the next time I’d need it, I wouldn’t forget it because I so obviously left it on my desk. Of course, this was not the tube of toothpaste I brought on my last trip, because it got buried amongst all the other crap on my desk. (So it obviously wasn’t obvious!)

Some of the “junk” is worth saving because of its sentimental value. Such as the first Valentine my husband wrote or my kid’s first birthday card. Unfortunately, somewhere along the road of sentimentality, I swung far to the left of center and transformed into a pack rat. I started hording. It’s not just the cards from my husband that I’ve saved. Actually, it’s every card anyone has ever sent to me since my mid-twenties. (And that was quite awhile ago!) Yes, you heard me right. If you are my friend and have ever sent me a birthday card, invitation, birth announcement, holiday photo, postcard, get well card, flower arrangement, gift through the internet, or even a thank you note, I have it cataloged away for safekeeping.

My friend Indie is totally on board with this concept. She just spent an entire day, a completely kid-free Saturday (well, okay, she doesn’t have kids yet), a whole afternoon to conduct an archaeological dig in her guest bedroom closet which stores her troves of sentimental “junk”. I am not exaggerating when I use the term “archaeological dig.” Indie could reconstruct her entire past—every old boyfriend, every injury, and travel destination, she had experienced for a major portion of her early adulthood years—through the careful examination of her collection of junk.

And as an avid junk collector and professional archaeologist myself, I enjoyed our long conversation on the guided tour of Indie’s past. It was hilarious and some of the random stuff she had saved from me, I could actually remember it too. It was a trip down Indie’s memory lane.

Every so often, we all seem compelled to clean out our closets. I’m good for a spring cleaning (and full examination, of course) about every two to three years. But it seems we’re all doing that more often now as we start to approach our 40s. Forty isn’t here yet, but I just passed the exit ramp warning sign that read “40—2 miles.” So perhaps it’s that awareness that pushes us to clean out our memory closet, dust off our favorite things and reexamine both what it meant to us then and how it fits us now.

Indie, my soul sister, and I may be a bit extreme. Not just in the collecting part but the re-examining, inspecting, finding new meaning part. Some girls don’t save quite to that extent. And I know a few who have tossed out most of their junk. They were able to say, “that was then and this is now” and out it goes with the baby’s bath water.

Sometimes we save our junk because we want to hold on to our past. Sometimes we save it to remind ourselves how far we’ve come. Either way, sometimes you just need the closet space.