Feeling Forty

I was born in August of 1973; hot, humid, and breathless, the sound of a symphony of cicadas singing in the distance.  I remember hating my birthday as a child. I was the only kid in my Elementary school that didn’t get to celebrate her special day with the class.  The first day always seemed to coincide with the week following my birthday. Which meant that all those cute cupcakes, smothered in pink and purple icing and situated temptingly behind the glass at the Giant Eagle bakery, would never hear my classmates chant “Happy Birthday Kellie” before they were eaten, crumbs falling all over the tops of black and white writing notebooks.  As I got older though, my birthdays got much better.  After becoming a teacher, my birthday auspiciously fell during my summer vacation, which allowed for “partying” in style without the worry of the clean-up or the hangover the next day.  In fact, I’ve loved every birthday since.  Until this year.  Until my 40^th birthday.  For some reason, I just couldn’t get happy about it. 

It wasn’t the idea of “getting old;” I didn’t feel any older, to be honest.  It wasn’t that I was a mother with four kids; I’m not the typical mom with four kids (there aren’t a single pair of “mom jeans” in my entire wardrobe).  What was it, then?  The day has come and gone and I still can’t say for sure.  But I think it has something to do with regret.  So the question is, what do I regret?

I regret that I was never popular.  I spent most my youth wishing that I looked like someone else,  dressed like someone else, moved like someone else…wishing that I was someone else. At forty, I’ve finally reached the point in my life where I’m comfortable with who and what I am.  But what about all the time I spent wanting to be different?  I can never have those days back.  They’re gone forever, just like my Jordache jeans and Swatch watch collection, never to be seen again. 

I regret that I didn’t take better care of myself.  I used to be obese.  I weighed about one hundred and twenty-five pounds in 4^th grade. Because of my size,  I missed out on being a cheerleader, playing basketball and softball, and wearing the spandex mini-skirts and Daisy-Dukes that all my other friends enjoyed.  By high school, most of my pre-teen weight was gone, but by then, the damage was done.  My weight has been a battle ever since and I’ve continued to fight it, even as an adult; I’ve never looked in the mirror and seen a flat stomach or a tiny waist or long legs.  Things might have been different though, if I’d made some different choices.  I wish there’d been a time when I was able to look at myself in a bikini and like the reflection looking back at me.

Finally, I regret that I didn’t go more places.  As a child, we took many vacations as a family.  We went to places like Lake Erie and Virginia Beach and Amusement parks such as Cedar Point and Sea World.  But in 1980, after my Dad lost his job at U.S. Steel, all that changed.  We didn’t have the money to take family vacations any more.  Later, when I went to college, I chose to live at home to save on my student loans.  I never joined a sorority or traveled to Florida for Spring Break.  I did, however, graduate Magna cum Laude from the University of Pittsburgh; I got hired as a teacher right out of college, and I now make close to a six figure salary.  By most measures, I’m a success.  Nevertheless, sometimes I wish I would’ve taken the time to visit England, Ireland, Italy, Las Vagas…places that now seem not only exotic, but out of reach.  With four kids it will be a long time before I’ll be able to see these places again.

This is how I felt the morning of August 24^th, 2013. I felt like the sands of time were swallowing me up, like I was swimming upstream in an hourglass.  I walked through most of the day in a fog.  When my family suggested going to dinner, I reluctantly agreed.  I knew I had to go, but didn’t feel much like celebrating.  I just wanted to be alone.  To wallow in my melancholy undisturbed.  We headed towards the rear of the restaurant as I held my eldest toddler in my arms; the other marched in tow.  My daughters were in the lead and then suddenly disappeared.  I barely heard the “surprise” coming from the back of the room, where tables filled with people waited to greet me.  It was a party…for me!  My friends and family were there.  Happy.  Smiling.  Hopeful. 

When I arrived home that evening, balloons, favors, and leftover birthday cake in hand, I felt different.  Changed.  I realized that to regret my past was to dishonor my present.  All the people in that room were there because of who I am, not because of who I was.  Maybe the things I’ve spent so much time regretting were the very things that made me special.  The person my friends and family were there to celebrate.  A person worth celebrating.  A person with no regrets.