Fifty seems like it would be a momentous year, gold-dipped and gleaming. A milestone, an accomplishment. And it was a a good year, but it was also a hard year. Adjustments at home, adjustments at work. The begrudging acceptance of my permanent work-from-home life, much smaller and simpler than the one I used to have. The aches and pains and health scares for me and for others that come standard with living to this age and beyond. Ambitious goals that were a little too ambitious. Impostor syndrome that just never quits leading to my first bouts of “Sunday Scaries” in a long, long time. Constant worrying about things I can’t change or fix. Finally acknowledging people’s true colors instead of ignoring them and continuing to give them a second — or a hundredth — chance.
That was 50. Not terrible, but not amazing. Pretty “meh.”
Today is my birthday. I am 51. It’s a much less glamorous number, but sometimes the most amazing experiences come from what isn’t so glamorous.
The last time I was in Philadelphia to go to the office, I noticed that a restaurant that was a block away from my train station — Max Brenner — had closed. I had always wanted to have my birthday dinner there for the eight years I walked past it every day and the three years I walked past it occasionally. But every year in mid-August, I decided against it. I convinced myself that it was too much to ask for my loved ones to go into the city for dinner. The menu was probably a little too “out-there.” The prices were probably too high. Either we’d have to pay an arm and a leg for parking, or navigate everyone through a train trip. And so or eleven years, I never breathed a word about that restaurant. And now it’s closed.
There’s a lesson that I want to bring into my 51st year. Being more open and adventurous. Asking for what I want and need.
Here’s to 51!
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Happy Birthday!
Thank you!