My unlucky number has always been four. And today, I turn it in duplicate. (How the hell did I get to be 44?) On top of it all, I have to spend most of this age in the year of 2014? What does this mean for the next 12 months?
I don’t even remember where and when the number four became a harbinger of doom. But we did make up recently during the playoffs. I was about to eat a fourth salted caramel with David Ortiz up to bat with the bases loaded. I started to stop myself, but couldn’t pull my arm back fast enough. I had just bitten into the delicious confection when he hit a grand slam. Which, by the way, is four runs.
With that spirit in mind, I refuse to feel jinxed. Whether today and the 364 days that follow end up as I imagine, plan, hope them to be, or something totally different, I will embrace each moment. Love. Laugh. Live. Create joy. Buy the expensive serum to ward off wrinkles. Wear the amazing push up bras (happy birthday to me) that defy what I know about my anatomy. And face it all with strength, grace and a sense of humor. Maybe just fewer salted caramels than I consumed in year 43.
