The Second Act

“Oh, and you only do this?” the man said, incredulously, summing up that my silly sleeve of tattoos must equal a mental deficiency.

You see, I had proudly told him how my sister (in law) works as a critical care registered dietician and somehow, her achievements were a reflection of my presumed lack thereof. And what an odd thing for a stranger to just assume.

But the point I really want to make is that I kinda forgot about this. I relayed it a few hours after it happened with a shrug and now do I see the significance. Because a year ago this would have crumbled me. Like ripping wet paper, I would have shredded and gone down a drain. Two years ago I’m not sure I was even healthy enough to be working, let alone survive an off handed comment from a stranger who knows absolutely nothing about me.

I could be working on a PhD or up all night as an EMT. I mean, I’m not, but still.

My birthday, my fortieth birthday, has been good, albeit with some tears, which is every day that ends with a -y. Now that it’s here, there’s more trepidation. A very sort of oh shit, I have to show up for myself. There really is no one else feeling. Compounded with the hard reality that actions have consequences, even the most minor that felt overbearing are now so deeply missed.

What I suppose could be considered a long time ago, seventeen year old me could not picture this, a forty year old me. I couldn’t imagine this body feeling like home – some places soft, some supportive, some squishy and stretchy but so many colors and stories and travels and meals. I didn’t know I was waiting to accept myself, give myself a chance to be accepted by myself but I’m glad I’m here…and if you made it through that sentence, I’m glad you’re here too. Happy birthday to me and all the bobbly bits that make me up!