In exactly one week from today, I turn the big 3-0.
I think it’s pretty obvious how I feel about it.
I’ve been trying desperately to live my mantra: “Stay present and live in the moment.” And I have been fairly successful, for the most part. I’ve been focusing on my writing, checking off the last few things on my 30 Before 30 list, and enjoying my friends and family.
But a few days ago, the reminders of my looming birthday began.
Last week, in an attempt to jump start my weight loss, I started feverishly working out again. (Because apparently, I thought I could lose those last 17 pounds in 2 weeks without being stranded on a deserted island with nothing to live off of but large caterpillars and coconut milk.) Day one went smashingly well. Day two was also a success. Shortly after Day three, I realized I’d already pulled a muscle in my lower back, bringing those intense 2-a-day workouts to a screeching halt.
Then, a few days ago, I noticed that the solitary grey hair I mentioned in a previous post has decided to invite his entire family to reside on top of my head, and they appear to be throwing their own special birthday bash for me. Here’s hoping they don’t invite their friends, too.
|At least they brought gifts.|
And yesterday, while grocery shopping with my father, I noticed I was having some pain in my right hand. When I moved my first and middle fingers, it was like you could practically hear the tendons creaking. I mentioned it to my dad, and in true fatherly fashion, he said, “You know arthritis runs in the family. I’ve got some ointment at the house you can try.”
Oy vey. Arthritis? Seriously??
I’m hoping it’s just carpel tunnel syndrome from all the Twitter stalking of a certain someone that’s been going on of late.
After careful consideration, I’ve decided that my body isn’t going to be happy until it thoroughly reminds me that I’m about to turn 30.
Thanks, body. You rock.