Dutch Blitz

I’ve talked a lot this fall and winter about how I thought I had finally beaten the S.A.D. monster. I ramped up my vitamins, I’m exercising at least five days a week, and we’ve taken up skiing. That, there, has been HUGE. Being above the clouds, in the sunshine and fresh air, exercising (my demons) all day long. Throw in a birthday weekend full of happy kids, good food, and beautiful friends, and I thought I had January beat.

Then Monday came along.

(Cue DJ, scratching a needle across a record and then, complete silence.)

I hit a perfect storm on Monday morning which saw me crashing from the birthday high, with a nauseous stomach that wasn’t stress-related, complete with a number of things on my mind that are stress-related, and trying to battle this after a horrible nights’ sleep. I got the kids to school, crawled back into bed, and thought that I’d wake up with a bit of clarity. I thought wrong.

I woke up, still nauseous but at a manageable level, and read for a bit. I made my way downstairs, had some tea and a snack, and thought I’d do some work. I opened my laptop and just … blinked. For minutes. Maybe I should read some more? I read for another hour or so, sat back in front of my laptop and found myself physically unable to do anything. I had never felt this way before. I always have thirty (thousand) things to do and idle time is not something that happens often, if ever. My reading time is grabbed in small portions as we drive up to the ski hill or a few moments before bed or while waiting for an appointment. If I have hours alone, I will work or edit/upload photos, or write, or just DO something. I was home alone, I didn’t have my head in the toilet, and here I was feeling like my arms were dead weights and my head was a London fog.

I read some more. I tried to work/write/engage in some way a few times, but every time I hit a wall.

I can’t do this.

I felt powerless, which made me equal parts frustrated and apathetic. I talked to Matthew and told him how I was feeling. About how sad I was feeling, too, which is the sum of some things I can’t talk about yet and a hundred other things. He told me that it’s OK to have bad days, and it’s OK to have sad days. And then I cried.

The afternoon got better, especially once the kids were home, but I felt quiet. I still feel quiet. I haven’t felt as I did Monday morning, and I hope I don’t again, because that was a first for me and I didn’t like it. I can’t even blame any of it on raging female hormones, which made it all the more odd for me.

I hope that it was January’s last attempt to get me down and while she succeeded for a day (or three), I’d appreciate it if she exited quietly. I have a life to live.

It’s my birthday tomorrow.

*Cue the fanfare and a ticker-tape parade*

I’m kidding. But only a little bit. Birthdays for me have always been a big! huge! deal! It’s MY DAY. And if it’s your birthday, it is also a big! huge! deal! It’s YOUR DAY. Truth be told, I often stretch my “day” into a good week of celebrations. I had lunch with coworkers today, I’m going out for a nice dinner tomorrow with Matthew and another couple, and I’m having a “girls’ night in” (wine and appies) with my besties on Saturday night. Then next weekend, Matthew and I are going to a concert. (Jars of Clay!)

I like celebrating, is what I’m saying. What I don’t like, especially this year, is the number on the calendar.

37

I mean, look at it. It just looks old, like it should be hanging by one rusted screw on a wartime house. I know that it’s not old, and that I may not have even lived half of my life yet — God willing — but I still feel like I’m twenty. The mirror, however, sets me straight. The “laugh lines” around my eyes, that deep number eleven between my eyebrows, the loss of elasticity … everywhere. Oh, and the grey hair that I’ve been coloring since my early twenties. OH! And that GREY HAIR I FOUND IN MY EYEBROWS.

I don’t mean to sound vain, because I’m truly not, but I know people who were grandmothers at the age of thirty-seven. Yes, really.

That all said, I don’t beat myself up too much about aging because, hey! There’s nothing I can do about it! And (SPOILER ALERT) neither can you! And, to quote a family friend I talked to this week, getting older is far better than being dead.

There is also a lot that I like/love about being thirty-seven:

• I am married to the perfect man for me, and not do I only love him, I like him.
• My kids are the funnest! age! ever! We’re in the eye of the storm between toddler tantrums and teenage angst and it really is the best stage (so far).
• I think that I’m a pretty great Mom. I’m not perfect, no, but I’m comfortable and confident and think that I have these three (and they have me) for a reason.
• I take good care of my body. I spent almost twenty-five years not knowing how to eat healthy or exercise. I attend boot camp, I run, I do crazy workout DVDs, I SKI. I also eat more protein and vegetables and less pasta and rice than I did fifteen years ago.
• I know what clothes look good on me (v-neck tops, A-line skirts, dresses) and what clothes don’t (turtlenecks, skinny jeans). I’m also not afraid to try a new style and possibly even like it on me.
• We live in a home that we love, in a community we adore, with the best friends and a great church family. I couldn’t imagine being any happier living any place else.
• I have a good sense of where I came from and a pretty good idea of where I’m going.
• I know who is worth my time, and who is not.
• I know what makes me content creatively, and I know what things I want to try next.

I feel really good in this space I’m in — you know, aside from the sagging skin, grey hair and face crevasses — and above all of that, I think this is going to be a great year for not only me, but for my family. I’m happy. Really happy. Which is good, considering it’s my birthday.