Birthdays have always been a bit of a bummer for me since I turned 30.
Back then, I regarded 30 as the wistful end of youth. (How silly!) But after my breast cancer adventure at 37 (a year and a half ago), I've been blessed with an attitude makeover. I had dreaded impending 40 as if it were a root canal. I even considered telling people I was 50 so people would tell me how great I looked.
But since then birthdays have become a big deal in an awesome way. On my 38th birthday the six year old in me surfaced. I wanted the works--balloons, party favors, cake with candles and sprinkles, and even better, a tiara.
I got all those minus the tiara.
And now with another birthday around the corner I reflect upon this change of heart. I used to dread middle age (I could barely say it), and defined this by AARP memberships, aging up on the census brackets, no more memberships to the young professional societies or gatherings, but I'm now looking forward to it. I want to celebrate 50, 60, 70, 80, heck I want to be a centenarian. Lemons can be turned into lemonade.
Don't get me wrong - cancer sucks, it's scary, and it's a physical and emotional roller coaster ride. There’s the fear of its return and the occasional memory that resurfaces. There are bi-annual mammograms and ultrasounds as precautions to contend with. Each visit feels like an exam (the dreaded sort you cram for), and hopefully ends with an exhale. I've been lucky and blessed so far.