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This upcoming week-end has been on my mind for a while.
Saturday will mark the one year anniversary of the great ankle debacle.
Sunday I’m turning 35.
I’m not really sure how I feel about either of these things.
It’s mixed emotions to be sure. As far as the ankle goes, I’m going to bypass the negative and start with gratitude. Grateful that I have had such a great recovery. Grateful that my team of docs, when faced with a bizarre injury such as my own, rose to the challenge to make sure that my mobility returned, but also that the lingering scar would be as minimal as possible. Grateful for all of the help and support that was offered and that I had the common sense to accept.
My family and friends circled the wagons and enabled me to rest up while secure in the knowledge that everything else had been taken care of. There were days when it was a one-man pity party going on over here, and there were days when it wasn’t so bad. When faced with the option of an additional surgery to ameliorate some aching and release an ensnared tendon, I was kind of reluctant. Surgery meant being off my feet, literally. Two weeks of the boot, crutches, not working out, relying on others. That last one was the biggest impediment to my making a rush decision. In the end, the chance for increased mobility outweighed anything else. Sure, my career as a foot and leg model may be over — it never really got off the ground — but I’m walking. I doubt I’ll ever take that for granted again.
As for the upcoming birthday, it’s significant for a few reasons. First of all, seeing as how my whole ankle thing happened the day before my birthday last year, I really need this one to be less traumatic. Secondly, while 35 isn’t 40, it’s still kind of big deal.
My mom was 35 when she had me. Her mom was 35 she had her. At 35, I’ve know the Hubs half of my life. 35, for me at least, feels like I’m firmly and irrevocably an adult. My youth is pretty much behind me (that ain’t all that’s behind me). I know that I don’t look 35 — what’s that supposed to look like anyway? I don’t feel 35 — what’s that supposed to feel like? I’ll spare you the introspection of what I should have accomplished in my life thus far and the self congratulations of what I have already successfully achieved. There are equal notches on both sides of that tally sheet.
For the past six years, I’ve shared my birthday with Co; she was scheduled to be delivered on the 10th, but I went into labor (and denial) on the 7th around noon, holding out hope it was merely indigestion. Come 1am, we were en route to the hospital and shortly thereafter, Co made her debut. From that point on, September 8th has been “Co’s birthday”.
Suffice it to say that this year, I kind of don’t want to share. I mean, yeah, yeah, Happy Birthday, kiddo, but — and I’m going to be honest — I’m feeling a little selfish and would like to be fêted on my own. Yes, I’d like for it to be all about me. I know, that sounds like I’m turning 5 not 35, but nyah, nyah, nyah!
My dad asked me today what I’d like for my birthday and I about dropped the phone, I was so giddy with delight. I can’t really recall when I was last asked that question. In fact, I really had nothing to suggest by way of a gift. Thankfully, Dad gave me some time to think about it before solidly retracting the offer. I need to come up with something, pronto. I hear the tick-tock of the gift clock running down and given the speed with which time is passing, I’ll be turning 36 before I get my hands on something to unwrap.
