45!

Women aren’t supposed to reveal their age.

I’m 45 as of yesterday.

45.

45.

45.

It’s difficult to fathom 45 years of life. Memories are scattered and some are gone completely. There have been so many people, so many places, and so many blessings. It has all been a fantastic adventure and I don’t believe I have the talent to find the word that can convey my gratitude for the privilege of life.

However, if you pressed me, today I’d choose tired.

On my first day of 45 I woke up in total opposition to the scene outside the window. The world outside was bright, clear and crisp.  I was dull, hazy and fuzzy.

I could not get it going.

The clock ticked as I stood in the shower stream soaking up the warmth. I knew I needed to get out but I wanted more warmth. I had planned to go to the gym early, but I could not get out of bed.  I turned off my alarm, rolled over for another 20 minutes of sleep, and made a mental plan to work out during my lunch hour.

I buried down deep into the covers and told myself I was brilliant.

I am a plan maker and when I make a plan I stick to it. I didn’t count on the details of this plan to be such a hassle.

Now I had to plan for lunch and for workout clothes.

I could not get it together.

I did end up packing two bags but I won’t tell you that I may have forgotten my gym shoes and may have packed my deodorant in my lunch bag.

Whatever.

Welcome 45!

Sluggish?

Dull?

Fuzzy around the edges?

Are you going to take a half hour to get dressed every morning because you can’t figure out what you feel like wearing to work?

Are all plans going to be so much work?

Maybe we can cut some kind of a deal.

I’ll give up my plans if you pack my lunch, prepare my workout bag, and pick out my work clothes the night before so when I get up I’m calm, cool, collected and fashionable.

I actually have some thought about giving up my plans.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking about.

I want to give up, give over, and release the hold I think I have on my life. The harder I hold on, the more it hurts, and instead of getting what I want, all I end up with is rope burns on my hands.

Surrender is frightening because it means I’m not going to be the one fighting and conquering.

Surrender is something I don’t understand, can’t see, or even explain to someone else because what it looks like for me is not what it looks like for somebody else.

For me it means stillness, waiting, and learning to be comfortable with not picking up the rope and wrestling with it.

It means faith.

When I hold the rope and let it dig into my hands, I’m okay with the pain because I’ll take pain with control any day of the week. I’ll figure it out, I’ll conquer,  I’ll pull and tug until I get what I want.

If I drop the rope, I’ll just have to stand there and wait. There’s no conquering or control, but instead, growing, adapting and changing. By dropping the rope I’m trusting that the problem is meant for my good, I don’t have to fight to change anything, and that despite  the circumstance, I’m going to be just fine because I’m in good hands. His hands.

So 45, what do you think?

Deal?

Oh by the way, please pack potato chips in my lunch.

Every day.