Happy Birthday to Me

On Saturday, I turned forty one, which strangely enough, was heaps better than turning forty.

I've had a full year to get my head around the concept of being the target demographic for plastic surgeons and in spite of the incessant pull of gravity, I've come to the conclusion that my forties are going to ROCK.

Last February, I was not a happy woman. I worked, slept, cooked, cleaned and watched television. The most exciting event I experienced was joining Netflix because "no late fees" ranked right up there with grocery shopping on my list of priorities. I welcomed my fortieth birthday with business travel because it afforded me time away from my children in places where other people cooked, did the dishes and folded down my bed at night. The only bedroom activities on my radar at that time involved a vacuum, dust bunnies and furniture polish. I was beyond miserable as only a woman on the fast track to bitter spinsterhood could be.

In late April, I pulled my head out of my ample bottom and gave it a shake. For the first time in over a decade, I made the conscious decision to change how my world looked. I told myself that if the most interesting thing in my week did not rival paint drying then I needed to get a life.

So I took up golf.

I know it sounds crazy but playing hide and seek with that little white ball in the trees, in the rough, in the drink and anywhere else but the bloody putting green was somehow deeply satisfying. I bought a set of obscenely expensive clubs, a couple of knee baring skirts and proceeded to redefine bogey. I joined a ladies' league, golfed four times a week and thoroughly enjoyed every second of it. Even though my short game was a disaster, I usually had one or two shots per round which were rockstar good and thus, kept me going back for more.

On Wednesday nights, the ladies got together to drink, golf nine holes, drink, eat pizza and um...drink. During these evening sessions, the women would talk about their men. They harassed me constantly about dating. Why wasn't I? What was I waiting for? I tried to explain that my last date was less than stellar but they wouldn't listen.

"Girl needs some ACTION!" they'd say or "What's the harm in dinner or a movie?"

As spring turned into summer, the physical benefits of the golf course began to reflect themselves and with my confidence boosted a smidge, I revisited the idea of dating again. At work, Stephanie hounded me to put myself back "out there". Every time she said this, I cringed a little thinking about small talk and ex-wife talk and divorce talk and wondering how many dates it would take before I felt the need to flee. One day, Stephanie told me that if I didn't register for eHarmony myself, she would do it for me and I might not like the results. So, I gave in and spent a month answering the questions on the profile.

Dallas was my first match and you know how that has unfolded.

Long story short, forty was pretty great. I learned how to golf and how to ride a motorcycle. I traveled all over the world. I bought two Harleys and a new car. I hired a housekeeper and a gardener. I started dating again. I had surgery. I quit smoking. I refinanced my house. I got to watch my son shed the last remnants of little boy and I survived my baby heading off to kindergarten. I became a grandmother. And, I fell in love.

This February, I am a deliriously happy woman. I still work and cook but I don't clean anymore. I rarely watch television and I've resigned my Netflix account. My birthday found me with friends and family. We ate chocolate cake that Dallas and I had made together and thoughtfully, candles were banished. I can no longer discuss my bedroom activities. In less than a week, I leave to meet the people who this summer, will officially become part of my family. Now, I wake up with the knowledge of how fortunate I am.

What a difference a year makes.