Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my 52nd birthday … Happy birthday to me! Please don’t sing.

I know I’m supposed to lament getting older, but despite the wrinkles, gray hair, incontinence, creaky joints, poor vision, poor hearing, lower libido, and overall crankiness, I like being this old.

If you’ve been following along for some time, you know that I was feeling myself in my late forties, with 48 being my pinnacle year. I was strong, lean, and healthy … Basically, a badass.

Then, the trifecta of mercury poisoning, COVID, and toxic mold nearly crushed me and turned the next two and a half years into misery (I wrote a very vulnerable post about it; you can reread it here).

Last year, after the mercury was cleared out and the mold remediated, I took back control and declared 51 the new 50 (reread that post here). It was my do-over year. This year, I’m continuing my comeback.

At 52, I’m physically, emotionally, and spiritually strong. I have a much better handle on what I want, what makes me happy, and what I don’t want to be bothered with anymore.

I also know that if I want something, I don’t have to depend on anyone else to give it to me. I can just go get it.

Like birthday presents.

This year, I gifted myself two PTO days and booked a massage, tarot reading, and Reiki session—three things I am very much in need of. I also bought myself a 70-pound kettlebell and an expensive non-toxic crock pot that I’ve been eyeing, and told my husband they were from him. [And before you come at me, he isn’t offended. He appreciates me taking the pressure off of him, so in a way, we both win.]

If all my illnesses and traumas have taught me anything (besides that I’m a fighter), it’s that taking care of my body, mind, and spirit isn’t selfish or extravagant—it’s necessary. These practices make me a better person, for me and the people around me.

Just imagine how much bitchier and more sarcastic I’d be if I didn’t take care of myself?