Chalk it up to my long time hatred of odd numbers or just some plain old hormoaning, but I was not looking forward to turning forty-three last week.
So much was I NOT feeling it that I cancelled the group dinner booking for the Friday night of my birthday and made sure to have no other plans the whole weekend. I was in a downward rut and feeling like shit.
Cue my fucking awesome family.
My daughter, two older sons, and their partners all chipped in to buy me a brand spanking new Apple watch. The dreaded birthday night itself saw takeaway pizza’s, unexpected drop in’s from neighbours and cousins, one gorgeous bunch of flowers, cupcakes, and many bottles of champagne. Combined with lots of lovely messages even ol’ grumblebum here managed to have a really nice birthday after all.
Then my husband went and booked a fancy dinner for two for the weekend and you just bet I was feeling enthusiastic by this stage, especially as he managed to surprise me, which let me tell you is NOT easy to do.
Some retail therapy helped too, I won’t lie.
The rose gold obsession continues with a gorgeous tote, and I found the perfect height black mules I was after. You know, the I-can-actually-wear-them-for-a-long-time height as opposed to the damn-they-look-good-but-I-really-need-to-take-them-off-NOW height.
In all seriousness though, I feel that I’ve been deeply affected by the gems I picked up reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F*ck, and what has stuck with me the most is the idea of perspective. It seems to be that one ever-present way of thinking that I lean on when I’m feeling less than inspired. Keeping things in perspective does wonders for my sanity, and just taking a mindful moment to put things into perspective always manages to rid my mind of whatever is causing me stress or anxiety.
So while 43 might be one of the suckiest numbers ever, realising how fortunate I am is a no brainer.
Cheers to that.