36-- ouch! (from my column in tomorrow's Paradise Post)

Yesterday was about the most depressing day of the year-- well the most dreaded day of the year.
I turned 36 and noticed that more than just my mood was on the “decline.”

I remember when my brother spilled down the downhill slope of 30 and started rolling onto 40.
I thought darn he’s getting old. Sure I was only two years behind, but crinkling your nose in an adolescent-esque head shake at someone else’s expense is quite enjoyable (when it’s family).

For my brother 36 was the beginning of a new life and adventure as his miserable marriage drooled to an end and he considered the possibility of happiness for the first time in more than a decade.

It took him a year to commit to the idea, but I still have to think than downward spiral toward the big 4-0 made him realize life is too short to be miserable.

Since the candles faded away on his 36th birthday cake, he’s finally grown up (it takes some men a long time to do this). The past two years haven’t been easy on him or on my family as child custody battles turned into nasty bitter pills everyone had to swallow. For a while I cut off virtually all communication with my family over “the divorce.” Call it self preservation-- those pills were arsenic laced cruelty.

Sometimes I just don’t understand how the judicial system can be so cruel.

But through the poisonous fog choking out my brother’s newfound independence, his calm, politeness shook me to the core. I doubt I’ll ever fully understand how he has managed to keep it together and not go postal.

He certainly wasn’t the angry teenager from my youth whose anger was a hand slapped on the kitchen table and a slamming door rattling the dishes. He was a man trying to keep it together for his daughter.

Now as I sip my tea on the fateful 36th year of my life, I wonder how I will mature over the next year. What kind of happiness awaits me?

I’m content in my beloved town. Heck my town throws a parade for me every year on or around my birthday-- who am I to complain?

I love my husband as much as I did the day I met him though I admit it’s different.
I’m not all awash in poetry and music.

Nor am I the exciting sweet thing spontaneous and ready to fly on a moments notice. Dancing only happens in Vegas-- and the theater, my once beloved past time, only happens when the stars align and I’m the luckiest girl in the world to secure a part.

I’m not the girl who couldn’t get the rhythm and sound of words out of her head or who woke in the middle of the night with her fingers inching to write a story.

I’m a mom. I’m a wife-- all the wildness of my youth is pretty much gone. Sedate, mature, loving and tender, fiercely protective and as unorganized as ever-- that’s me. Calm, comfortable, an old shoe, a cup of soup.

My family is my life, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I miss my youth.

Would I trade it for my family? Never.
Being young wasn’t all butterflies and roses.

It’s easy to forget the impossible heartache of youthful disappointment, the catty ridiculous time wasted in juvenile arguments and the bad life altering decisions we all learned to live through.

Infatuation was much more damaging than love and writing was often the release of pent up emotion.
Youth is hot, too fast, too passionate. For all it’s blessings, I don’t want to go back.

So I look forward to the next several years wondering what it brings. As my children mature will I find a new kind of thrill or will I just continue to age into a refined, smooth lobster bisque?