Yesterday was my birthday. I'm 54 years . . . So far it's been a pretty great experience. I've graduated from college; been married and divorced; had two terrific kids who are intelligent, independent, and adored by their Mother; owned two homes on my own; been to NYC and Disney World; seen more concerts than I can remember.
At 50, I sold almost everything I owned, moved to a city where I knew no one, and started my life over again. I own a cute little home, live within driving distance of both of my children and my four beautiful grandchildren, and I have met many amazing people that I am proud to call my friends.
I have been kissed by my grandson while cuddling in his fire truck bed. I've taken a walk with my granddaughter's little hand holding my finger. I've had one of my twin grandsons climb up and wrap his arms around my neck for a hug and the other smile shyly at me from around the corner of the doorway.
I'm proud of my life and proud of myself for having the courage to live it. I have been showered with blessings too many to count.
I've made it through difficult times. I've lost my Father, a Sister, all four of my Grandparents and several of my high school classmates. I helped my Mother through breast cancer. I lost my best friend to suicide.
AND, I'm not done yet. I haven't been skydiving. I haven't mastered Spanish. I don't have my culinary degree. I haven't been to Paris.
I'm just getting started. I have many, many miles to go before I sleep.