For almost two months I grappled with the fact that I was facing another one of “those” birthdays. I mean the kind of birthday that kicks off a new decade in one’s life, in this case, in my life.
When I turned eighteen, I was wild to turn twenty. Nineteen felt like a mere holding pattern until I reached the magical age of twenty, thus jump starting my so-called life. Or so I thought. The twenties were filled with advanced degree pursuits and travel abroad, mostly to Italy and to Greece. Actually, that decade was quite grand in its own way.
My decade spent in my thirties consisted of still living in Houston, marriage, relocating to the Midwest, motherhood, adjustment, and separation [in the marriage]. It was a decade of incredible highs [motherhood] and crashing lows [the demise of a marriage].
The decade of my forties saw me focused on rebuilding my life professionally, while simultaneously creating a secure, joyful life for my child. There was the renewal of love with a former flame, and happiness loomed large on the horizon. As the decade drew to a close, I became edgy about commencing a new decade in my life. I still saw myself as the starry-eyed twenty-four-year-old with unending Italian spirit, alive with endless possibilities and vigor. Everything came to a screeching halt when my beloved Mama suffered a massive stroke and died five months before my birthday.
I ceased worrying about “What if” and began asking “Why not?” when it came to each birthday. As my dear Mama was fond of observing, “Consider the alternative.” I choose life.
Ciao for now.