There is a point in every woman’s life when she must grapple with the fact that she no longer has the body of her twenties.  With love and grace she must gently admit that buying her favorite skinny jeans in the next size up is the kind thing to do for her abdominal circulation and that she must learn to love her body as it shifts, moves, and expands further into womanhood and life.

On my 33rd birthday, I wrestled with this greatly.

Both my boyfriend and I celebrated our birthdays last week — mine was first on Tuesday and his followed on Sunday.  We spent my birthday eating Chinese food on my couch while watching Law and Order on Tuesday.  I was exhausted, and it was exactly what I needed.  On Friday night we had a special date night to a small, Italian restaurant on Capitol Hill in Seattle.  And on Sunday we ate dinner with his parents and spent the evening at a nice Ethan Stowell Restaurant in Ballard.

Though it was a low key birthday this year for me, I am usually the one who wants fanfare, photographers, and a guest list.  Not so this year.  It was a celebration fit for an introvert.

It was lovely.  It was quiet.  And I made my wish with Phil on a reindeer candlestick.  What more could you want?

 

3 Responses to on turning 33

  1. Heather says:

    this is so good, dear woman. the rest and celebration you found feel so authentic and honoring. it also made me think of the items you gave me for my body orthodoxy project. I revel in and admire that act of letting go and accepting the beauty of what is.
    ps they’re hanging in my art room as instruments of surrender. thank you for them :)

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