So… I just realized I have exactly one week left in my thirties. One last little week.
This means, of course, that I’ve actually just finished living my fortieth year. Wow. Forty years seems like a lot. But the last decade has flown, and it has been, without a doubt, my favorite.
On January 12, it will have been exactly ten years since the day I got hitched. Shortly after that, we moved to Atlanta. A year later, Mose was born, and then Lew. Somewhere in there I published my first book, and then another 13. It’s more than I would have dared ask for or expect.
There have been some hard, sad moments. I’m older. I can feel it in my bones, and see it in the mirror. I have RA and crowns on a few teeth. A few gray hairs. I don’t take exotic trips abroad anymore or close down the bars. But I’m glad to be forty. No part of me is scared of the number.
At the same time, I think back to what I thought of FORTY as a kid, and I’m pretty sure I thought that forty was boring and wrinkly. I don’t feel boring and wrinkly. Though I wouldn’t object to an exotic trip abroad.
But tonight, for the first time, Mose asked me to help him pick a book to read to himself, and it felt truly momentous. Like a gift he was giving me. I’ve spent this decade building books and people, and now the two are coming together, and I don’t know why, but… it’s a big deal to me. Magical, in fact. Like I could see the last decade of my life right there in front of my face.
All this to say… whatever happens in this next decade, I feel very very very very lucky to be living my particular life. It’s good.
Thank you, everyone, for being part of it. Nobody constructs their own world. It’s made up of tiny bricks from other people. I’m grateful.