This. Is. 40. (or begin again)

Here I am. I’m 40. It’s February 15th 2016 and it has been 40 years since the day I was born. For many obvious reasons this birthday feels ginormous. I’m now officially “old-enough-to-know-better”, or am I? For my money, I’d like to think of my 4th decade as a new beginning ripe for new mistakes, triumphs and understandings. I’m grateful for what my 30s taught me that got me to this level of self awareness and understanding (thank you HP, therapy, recovery, Iyanla, Oprah, and Deepak, friends, family and strangers). The only difference I feel between now and the beginning of my 30s is this unbridled sense of fearlessness. This doesn’t mean I ain’t scurred.

Shit.

I’m terrified.

I want:

A healthy mind, body and spirit.

My family to be whole.

A husband,

One more baby,

A MacAurthur Genius Grant (at some point, I’m realistic … or maybe just a large chunk of money that will grant me the freedom to create … I have paypal if any possibly benefactors are reading),

And a career as a writer that doesn’t involve kissing ass or joining cliques I want no part of.

AND the things more likely to happen, per my current trajectory, are NOT the husband and the kid. Like a cup of Mars water seems more likely than the artsy wedding and the blissful pregnancy that I have envisioned in my mind.

And I feel those things slipping away, but I’m not afraid to endeavor. I’m not afraid to live my way towards the life I want. To keep coming back. To jump into the fire, be burned, then reborn. To rock with the pain. To lean with the joy. To love through it all.

This for me is what 40 means. This for me is what life means. We stop at a certain point. See where we’ve been, look where we’re going and strike out towards the great unknown future.

It’s like one of those annoying ass childhood songs that just keeps going … and going … and going …

Rosie.

p.s. I may actually try to write for this blog a lil more. Whytf not, right?!

There was an old man called Michael Finnegan.

He grew whiskers on his chinnegan.

The wind blew out and blew them in again.

Poor old Michael Finnegan,

Begin again …

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