Welcome to forty-three.
"You have a birthday coming up this week, don't you?" asks my mom the other night while we're on the phone.
"How old are you going to be again?"
"Forty-three," I drawl.
"I can't possibly have a daughter who is forty-three," my mother groans. "That would make me old."
Sorry, Mom, but there you have it. It's true. Forty-three.
And here I am...said birthday has arrived today without much fanfare (and, thankfully without any snow, as had been predicted.) Cecil is sitting next to me sulking because I remove her from my lap a few minutes ago so I can write this blog post. Chris is off sweating at spin class. I should be at the gym with him.
But here's the thing.
I'm in a funk.
(For those of you who have been reading for the last few weeks...I'm sure this doesn't exactly come as a shock.)
I keep trying to sort of pick up the pieces of myself and move forward, but I'm feeling kind of stuck. And I hate it.
Hate that I feel stuck and grumpy and sad and funk-y.
Part of me feels like I should go whine to my therapist about all of this for a while. Another part of me has no interest whatsoever in going to see my wonderful therapist to rehash this whole debacle. All of me knows that I definitely should get my flabby ass back to the gym. And then another part of me is kind of like, "Oh, for God's sake...Just. Get. Over. It. Already. Adoptions fall apart all of the time. You're not special!! Move. On."
And that last part of me is probably pretty smart. Time to get out of this funk. Set aside some of the grief and Just. Move. On.
It's not like I don't have things to do either.
There's an unfinished novel residing on this laptop that I haven't touched in months. My art studio...ugh, a disaster that needs cleaning and sorting in the worst way. Ditto for our bedroom. Cecil needs constant adoring. Exercise and meal planning could definitely be brought back into my life. There are friends that I haven't seen in weeks. My job is ramping up again. Thank you cards to write to family and friends who gave us all kinds of wonderful baby stuff. There's my parents 50th wedding anniversary party that I'm helping to plan. Oh yeah - and I have a pretty fabulous husband who is also sad and hurting and who could use some of my attention.
It's not like life needs to come to a screeching halt because of all of this adoption crap.
Time to get off my stuck, sad, grumpy, funk-y keester to get back into life.
Forty-two did not turn out to be - for me anyway - the "Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe, and Everything." But I'm hoping that my forty-third year on the planet will be a good one.
Welcome to forty-three. Happy birthday to me.
Think I'll go have a bowl of oatmeal.