Yesterday was my birthday.
Up until the last few weeks, the prospect of turning 50 bothered me. Alot. I don't know why. After all, my life is pretty darn good. I am healthy. I have wonderful friends. I work with pretty string every day. I've made a nice home. I worship the man I am married to. (I think he likes me OK too.)
So, why the angst? It took me a long time to put my finger on it and an even longer time to own up to it. I was afraid of being the stereotypical middle aged woman who knits. And I don't even have a cat.
There were two incidents that helped turn me around. First was my visit to Wild Purls in Montana. Julia, the owner, turned fifty over the summer and she was embracing it. She went to a reunion, she organized a girlfriends weekend, she called friends and offered them the "opportunity" to buy her lunch. After all, this is her Year of Being Fifty. I think that has a nice ring to it.
The other thing that happened was a conversation with my dear friend, Frank. He had stopped by the studio to visit during the Ravenswood Art Walk. I mentioned that I was less than thrilled with this birthday and told him my misgivings about the yarn lady thing. He looked around, cocked his head and started laughing uproariously. Then he said "You are a yarn lady. What does your age have to do with it? No one is going to love you any less."
So here I am. Fifty. Would you like to buy me lunch?