Here I am, equidistant from 15 and 75.
Equal parts wonder and “meh.”
At 45, I’m now parentless.
At 45, I miss my mom more than ever.
At 45, I’m preparing for one of my birdies to leave the nest, the other in just two years.
At 45, I am loved and supported beyond what I ever expected.
At 45, I am thisclose to my book, started now 19 years ago, being done. DONE.
At 45, I am asking the Universe to show me ways I can be of service to others.
At 45, I am still getting to know my own light.
At 45, I am well-acquainted with my dark.
At 45, I wait. I welcome and I expect.
At 45, I am a lover of the simple, of the minimal, of the uncomplicated, of the streamlined.
At 45, I remember wanting to be a lawyer, a sports agent and, for about a day and to sound important, a neurosurgeon.
At 45, I still believe a Redskins’ Superbowl is imminent. #HTTR
At 45, I’m about to let the grey win.
At 45, I love saying no. And I have gotten good at it.
At 45, I am looking for more things to say “yes” to.
At 45, I am including with this post a no-makeup, no-filter, in-front-of-the-shower-in-the-bathroom selfie, and, you know, that’s that.
At 45, I look at my girlfriends and know that I deserve them, but I still am in awe of my good fortune.
At 45, I stop what I am doing here and everywhere else to text way too much.
At 45, I still get compliments on my smile.
At 45, I don’t smile enough.
At 45, I still am a big fan of the “F” word.
At 45, I will just say it. Fuck.
At 45, I still believe Howard Stern is king.
At 45, I am still a speed-reader.
At 45, sometimes I need +1.00 readers.
At 45, I’m over it. A lot of “it.”
At 45, I know it all and I still don’t know anything.
At 45, I remember everything.
At 45, I’m OK.
Today, I am 45.