Our Last Year Of Our Thirties

We don't think of thirty-nine as a milestone birthday. By the time we reach our thirties, milestone birthdays are typically reserved for the decades: The Big 4-0, black balloons at fifty (although I was given black balloons when I turned thirty. What's that all about?).

We celebrate milestone birthdays more frequently in our younger years: Sweet Sixteen. Eighteen, you're an adult now! Twenty-one, you can drink now! Twenty-five, you're a quarter-century old now!

Have we ever considered how crazy it is to enter the last year of a decade though?

My husband, Dan, and I turned thirty-nine this year within about two months of each other. The thirties have been good. I learned the most about "adulting" during this decade. I've gained confidence in my career, in my relationships, in my health, and in the way I deal with day-to-day grown-up issues. During this the decade, the years have also flown by. I mean, seriously, where did my thirties go anyway? And what do the forties have in store? 

One of my friends, already in his fourth decade, told me your body takes a nose-dive at age forty.

"I thought it would be more gradual," he said, "but it was more like this," and he moved his hand toward the floor in a quick declining gesture.

Another friend of mine who turned forty this year said, "Everybody keeps telling me, 'You're only as young as you feel.' I say, 'Thanks! I'm feeling twenty-eight today.'"

I've been spending a lot of time showing Dan pictures of people in their late thirties and pointing out how well I have aged.

"It's got to be my freckles and the sunscreen."

One day during my late thirties, I woke up, and my metabolism had gone to shit. It didn't matter how many miles I ran or how few calories I ate. I looked at a piece of carrot cake, and I packed on five more pounds.

A few days after that, I woke up to wrinkles on my forehead that wouldn't go away, and I found myself considering Botox. Feminist Becky, who had vowed to age gracefully (aside from the occasional hair dye-job) and not give in to society's pressure to look youthful at any cost, was actually considering Botox. I had heard it was THE thing that can make that pesky crease between your eyebrows go away . . . but only for six months.

Dan celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday in April.

"He still looks seventeen," said one of my friends, which I took to mean, "You still look seventeen too."

"Thank you," I replied.

I spent Dan's birthday at a rehearsal, so we celebrated the following Friday. That evening, I rushed home from work to wrap his present.

“I could just hand it to you,” I had said the night before.

I'm not good at wrapping gifts.

“Half of the enjoyment is making fun of your wrapping skills.”

I put his present in a gift bag.

I turned thirty-nine in June. I decided I wanted to go on a hike for my birthday. I had recently read an article about a nearby trail. The reporter had compared hiking this trail to walking through the hills in The Sound Music.

The reporter failed to mention the trail winds through and around high ridges with just the type of grade that has caused many a meltdown in my thirty-nine years, the kind where I eventually sit down in the dirt and cry or giggle profusely until Dan grabs my hand and drags me down the path.

“I need to go down on my butt,” I said.

“No going down on your butt. If you go down on your butt, the video camera comes out,” Dan said. (He is referring to this.)

“Oh, and happy birthday!” he added.

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My Favorite Summer Activities (and Why I Should Maybe Not Do Them) (RE-POST from 6/6/15)

I still love these things about summer. I am also still a wimp. Not much has changed in the course of a year. Enjoy this post from June 2015!

I love the summer, and I love my favorite outdoorsy activities. But I'm not tough or gutsy. And I am getting less tough and gutsy the older I get. (I just turned thirty-eight yesterday.) In fact, celebrating another birthday, inching me closer to forty, got me thinking: Maybe I shouldn't do these things anymore.

My husband, Dan, and I see lots of people older than we are doing all sorts of crazy outdoorsy stuff. We live in Idaho after all, and people around here would wrestle grizzly bears if you'd let them. But we've already established that I'm not tough or gutsy like those people. I am, however, a five-foot-three bundle of entertainment during my ventures into mother nature.

1. Hiking
I love hiking, but . . .

I am deathly afraid of heights. If you have been reading my blog for a while, you have probably seen the infamous Becky-breaks-down-on-the-trail video. Unfortunately, this is not the only heights-induced breakdown I have had.

And I don't want to run into bears . . . ever. From what I've heard, it's inevitable. You keep hanging out in nature, you will encounter a bear eventually.

2. Mountain Biking
I love mountain biking, but . . .

Dan's doctor can't believe that, as an avid mountain biker, he hasn't broken any bones yet. It just goes with the territory. You keep mountain biking, you will break a bone. I don't want to break anything. And I'm sure as I approach forty that my bones are not what they used to be. I already know I don't heal as quickly as I used to.

And I still don't want to run into bears.

Oh, and the heights thing. I've had a few mountain biking meltdowns that (thankfully) have not been captured on video.

3. Trail Running 
I love trail running in Boise, but . . .

As I get older, I'm noticing weird aches and pains that don't go away quickly. And I have heard many I-used-to-run-but-my-knees stories from people about ten years my senior.

Cougars are scary too, and they love coming down from the foothills onto the trails in our city.

One time, this thing crossed my path, and I didn't freak out too bad.

I don't like snakes either, and they hang out on the trails all the time.

But . . .

Last summer, a runner passed me and warned me about a snake on the path, and I was like, "Is it a rattlesnake?" and the runner was like, "No," and I was like, "I got this."

And just a few weeks ago, I was running with my girls' group at school, and some of the girls started squealing about a snake on the trail. I stood beside the snake and directed the girls around it, kind of like, "Nothing to see here. Move along."

So . . . maybe I'm tougher than I think.

Or maybe I should just stick to my other favorite summer pastimes: Reading and blogging.

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School's Out For Summer! (RE-POST from 6/20/15)

This blog post was originally published in June 2015. Enjoy the reread! 

A couple of weeks ago, I ran across this picture in the paper.

Just in case you can't quite tell, it's a photograph of a limo picking up elementary age kids on the last day of school. I'm not sure if the kid giving the peace signs got to ride in the limo or was just really excited for the "no more school, no more books" thing.

The next evening, my husband, Dan, and I walked by a neighborhood "School's Out!" party. I know this because of the multicolored "School's Out!" signs plastered all over the houses. This was not just any ordinary summer shindig with hamburgers and hot dogs. I think there were pony rides involved.

"These parents are spending a lot of money to celebrate the end of school," I told Dan. "I mean, you'd think elementary school was a prison or something." 

"It's like they're rewarding their kids for accomplishing nothing," Dan said. "Like, 'Yay! Good job on your last day!'"

"Actually, they should be throwing expensive parties for the teachers. A Congratulations on Surviving Party."

I'm not saying people shouldn't throw parties to celebrate the beginning of summer. I'm just wondering if the extravagance and the emphasis on NO MORE SCHOOL sends the wrong message.

I mean, parents, don't you want your kids to feel good about attending school? Trust me. You do. You'll thank me that you kept your kids excited about learning when spring fever hits in April.

Besides, are parents that excited to have their kids home for three months? Because by the end of the summer, I hear a lot of rumbling from parents in cyber land about wanting school to start, summer break is too long, why don't the schools keep the kids forever . . .

As a kid, I don't remember limo or pony rides for anyone on the last day of school. Maybe I attended a few backyard barbecues or birthday parties during the summer. But nothing with a Congratulations on Breaking Out of the Hoosegow theme.
 
I didn't have time for parties. My summers were filled with day care, swimming lessons, tennis lessons, music camp, church camp, VBS. As a teen, I'd often volunteer as a helper at these summer activities, or I performed in summer youth theater. And then, when I came of age, I was expected to hold down a summer job, the kind of job that made me long for school.

I loved school, not so much for the social aspect, but because I loved to learn. Even now, I take classes any chance I get. I became a teacher, an eternal attender of school.

I know not all kids love school, the kids for whom learning is not easy or particularly fun. But I seriously doubt these are the kids whose parents are renting limos and throwing lavish parties.

These are probably the kids who deserve a celebration. They truly have accomplished something. School was hard. And they made it through another year.

Credit: Family Fun Magazine

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On Turning 30 (RE-POST from 2007)

On my 30th birthday in 2007

Wow. Tomorrow, I enter the last year of my thirties. How time has flown! Here is the post I wrote about turning thirty. It doesn't seem like nine years ago . . .

Last week, I turned thirty. I also found a gray hair. And I realized I wasn't in my twenties anymore. Just in case I didn't get the message, my family took me out to dinner for my birthday, made me wear a black lei, and handed me a black rose and a box of Correctol.

I'm not worried about aging, although I haven't always been so content about life's maturation process. When I turned sixteen, I spent the whole day crying, locked in a closet. Sixteen brought with it too much responsibility - learning how to drive, thinking about college . . . I suppose I wasn't the most logical sixteen-year-old.

Even though I'm thrilled to be thirty, I think my husband (Dan just turned thirty in April) and I may be going through an early mid-life crisis. A few weeks ago, we were discussing moving to Barcelona or maybe Ireland and giving up our careers to write books (that would be my dream) or program video games (that would be Dan's).

Then Dan said, "You don't like to fly over water" and that ended our mid-life crisis conversation.

"You know what your mother and I did during our early mid-life crises?" my dad said during a visit to Boise. "We had you - hint, hint!"

Yes, it seems that age thirty is also the age when people start asking THAT question.

From friends who have experienced the wonder of parenthood to mother-in-laws who say, "It's Mother's Day - I'm allowed to ask" to fathers who are saving your old Fisher-Price toys "just in case," turning thirty means you have to come up with a really good excuse as to why you don't have kids and why you're not even trying.

I just tell everybody I already have 550 kids (my music students), the best method of legalized birth control available.

Aside from a non-existent maternal instinct and a couple of black balloons, I've had a pretty smooth ride into age thirty. And sorry, Dad. For our early mid-life crises, instead of having babies, Dan and I bought new mountain bikes instead. But at least you won't have to worry about us moving to Ireland.

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