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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