I didn’t have any issues with 30.  The jokes came.  I laughed at all the “you’re old” cards that were sent my way.  I had a new job, a new husband, a new place to live and a new son.

Thirty was a breeze.

I thought 40 would be the same way, but I flipped the calendar to March yesterday and HOLY CRAP.  It’s like a truck barreling at me.  I’m taking a hard look at my life.  There is much I should be grateful for.

BUT

I thought I’d be in a different place.  I thought I’d have other accomplishments under my belt.  I thought I would have learned more lessons, been more mature, become less sensitive, more self-assured.

Basically, I thought I’d have my shit together by 40.

I know I’m not supposed to compare myself to other people, but it’s hard not to sometimes.  Honestly though, it’s the comparison I make against who I thought I would be that hurts the most.

Maybe it’s being adopted.  Maybe it was growing up in a family that looked different than most at the time.  Maybe it was the strong feminist influence from my beloved aunt.  Could be a dad that picked up and walked away one day.  Whatever it was (and seriously I’ve had enough counseling to have figured this out by now) I feel like I was supposed to excel at something big–something worthwhile.

I feel like I need to prove that I am worthwhile.

Wow.  Those eleven words were really difficult to write.

Well there it is.  I’m going to be mulling that one over for a bit.

Luckily, I still have 28 more days to sort this out.

Leave it to PFunky to set me straight–and some uplifting words from Laurie to put me on a better track.*

I’ve been pissed off all day. On Twitter I was reading about all the “GREAT” and “FANTASTIC” plans people have for the new year. Everyone was so freaking chipper. Apparently I only follow the uber-achievers whose sole purpose in life is to make me feel like a big gigantic loser by comparison.

Where am I going? What am I going to do next? What have I accomplished so far? What do I have to show for my time on this planet? Why was it again I went away to college? And moved away from home? How the heck am I going to make the changes I really want to make in my life?

Oh yeah, and I’m going to be 40 in 2010.

It wasn’t a pretty day.

Just moments ago, I was reminded that we are putting another decade on the books (I mean I knew this, but I didn’t really THINK about it), and then I started to think about my life 10 years ago.

The roof that is over my head? Didn’t belong to me yet.

The kind people I work for now? Hadn’t met ’em yet.

The three crazy, rambunctious, big-hearted boys who make me want to both pull out all my hair and laugh hysterically every single day? One just went back home to live with his mom and the other two were a vague concept.

I may not be world-famous (yet). I may not be the hottest mommy in town (yet). I may even still have that nasty Diet Coke habit (let’s not get too hasty with our resolutions), but I do have a life I couldn’t conceive of just ten years ago.

Makes me wonder how I’ll look back ten years from now.

*I hope you know how much your words meant to me today–always.

I’m not sure what it is–the letdown after the holidays, looking back at a year, anticipating a new one. Whatever it is it has me in a foul mood and wondering if a good, snot-filled cry would make it better.

While everyone else is excited for a new year and new resolutions, I’m sitting here this morning filled with anxiety and wanting to hide.

Being responsible for your own happiness is overwhelming sometimes. There are so many things I have to pretend not to see or feel that it becomes exhausting–like playing a role eight days a week.

Fake it till you make it?

My stiff neck and nasty zits say otherwise.

We haven’t talked in such a long time. It’s been even longer since I’ve seen him.

If you ask me, I’ll tell you that I don’t have any feelings about him at all.

None.

Really.

I can summon nothing.

He is part of my past like kids from elementary school who moved away, like that shirt you had to have in 7th grade and only remember now when you leaf through the photo album at your mom’s house.

He was there one day–such an integral part of my life–and the next he was gone. The pain in the beginning was fierce, but when it subsided the relief erased everything. No more drama.

So why? Why today?

Why was the last thought I had before falling asleep last night one that suggested I should google him today?

I felt dirty just typing his name. I was embarrassed. What if someone found out I had looked for him? Was I really “looking” for him, or just wanting to know if he was still out there?

My upper lip is pulled up in a scowl as I type this now. I’m disgusted that I did it. Thinking that by admitting it here I will cleanse myself of this thing–this act of typing twelve letters and pressing Enter.

You’d think by my description there was abuse. There wasn’t. Well, unless you consider abandoning your 10 & 12 year old daughters with no notice abuse. Most days I don’t. I’ve often considered it a favor.

He just walked away one day.

His name doesn’t deserve to be uttered. It most certainly doesn’t deserve to be written. And I think that’s why I’m so repulsed by the fact that I did. I think I’m worried that just by mentioning him by name he will somehow manifest from thin air, and I REALLY don’t want that to happen.

I’m kinda hinky about religion. I’m trying to work on it, but this general outlook results in a habit of not making bargains with G*d.

I do, however, on occasion find the need to enter into small agreements with inanimate objects and small children and pets who have no possible way to understand the ramifications of the covenant I’m making with them.

When my adorable, little puppy ran into the middle of a flag football game being played by a dozen hot guys down on the Mall that day in my 20’s, I promised then that I would forgive the future destruction of one item that she was sure to undertake.

When my youngest child behaved incredibly in the ER waiting room for hours on that visit when he was two? Well he doesn’t know it yet, but he has one free pass on breaking curfew when he’s a teenager.

I forgot to get gas before leaving for home tonight (what is it about the gauge that it always ends up in my blind spot?). I had to be home in twenty minutes. There was no time to stop and even to make it in that time I’d have to take the HOV lanes (there are no gas stations or exits on the HOV lanes).

The needle was on empty as I pulled out of the garage. The little orange light was on.

I really didn’t want to run out of gas. I didn’t want to stand in the cold. I didn’t want to wait for AAA to bail me out. I DID NOT want to hear it from my husband.

So I made a bargain with the car.

She has more than 100,000 miles on her. I tend not to give her the respect she deserves. I often let my eyes stray to other cuter, younger cars.

But I made a bargain with her.

My little car got me home tonight. I wasn’t late, and more importantly I didn’t have to listen to my husband rant about my inability to pay attention to the gauge (or the clock).

So I will stick by my promise. Next time I’m tempted dismiss that little car, I’ll remember she got me home on fumes.

Today I described how I see myself in my mind’s eye as a naked, flesh-colored jelly bean.

I’m not sure that this is a description that will mean anything to anyone else. I’m not sure it’s exactly the vision I have, but it comes closest. Maybe you’d get a better idea if I added that it’s probably one of those gross booger-flavored jelly beans from Harry Potter–I’ve steered clear of Jelly Belly’s in fear of getting one of those ever since I read the first book.

Why a naked jelly bean?

It’s mostly the amorphous blob shape, I imagine.

When I told my friend this he laughed and shook his head at me.

Last night I had the chance to talk to a childhood friend who told me that she always thought I was the “together” one. We were in 5th grade the last time we saw each other. How could I have been “together” in 5th grade? I’ll tell you what, I wasn’t.

But this is a trend. People often think I look like I know what I’m doing. A lot of times I do. But many times I don’t. Many times I feel like I’m the only person in the room who doesn’t have it all together.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t get the image of the naked, flesh-colored jelly bean out of my head.

Oh yeah, and I’m way jealous of people with good handwriting.

I’m a freak.

Okay, if you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time you already know that.

But every once in a while I like to pretend that I’m not, until I am so blatantly reminded as I was just now.

I visited the bathroom about an hour and half ago right after lunch. There was a woman wearing white sandals in there at the same time. We didn’t talk, but I took note of her shoes (of course).

See there’s something about the iced tea at my favorite lunch place. I drink gallons and my usually strong bladder caves to the pressure.

So back to the bathroom I went just a little while later feeling ridiculous that I had to go again so soon.

I noted that someone else was in there, but I just chose another stall to find relief. While washing my hands afterward the other toilet flushed and I looked into the mirror and could see the shoes peaking out from under the door.

White sandals!

I had to get out of there! I couldn’t wash my hands fast enough! What if she came out and saw that I was in the bathroom again?! She’d know that I went twice in less than two hours!!

I hurriedly pulled the lever on the paper towel dispenser (I hate wet hands), grabbed the towel and quickly rubbed my hands dry as I sprinted toward the door. I could hear the latch on the stall opening. She was almost out.

I pulled on the handle of the bathroom door and swung it open just enough to squeeze through and I ran out.

I actually sighed with relief. I made it out without her seeing me.

And then I walked down hall back toward my office verbally smacking myself in the head.

What normal, sane person worries about being seen in the bathroom twice inside of two hours by someone else who obviously has to go as frequently?! Who rushes out of the bathroom like that?

Seriously. I’m a freak.

Baseball season is upon us once again (does it really ever end?) and as you know there aren’t many options for a girl when nature calls at the field.

I avoid the dreaded Port-o-Potties as much as possible, especially after the incident last year, but sometimes there’s just no choice.

We were down at the fields for a marathon afternoon and all of the sudden my breakfast came back to haunt me.

There wasn’t any time to make it home.

I found a relatively clean cabinet o’ ca-ca and went about my business. So many thoughts ran through my head as I was finding my way to sweet relief.

What if some kid forces the door open and everyone sees me with my pants down?

What if a long line has developed since I stepped in here?

Is the tank full enough that the next person will know I had the sour-apple-quick-steps?

As these totally rational and sane thoughts caused me to sweat a little, my eyes landed on this:

I HAD to know whose job it was to figure THAT out.

As part of my research (see what I do for you??), I made the most fascinating discovery–the PSAI–and boy is their website full of interesting information!

For instance, did you know that there are 1,400,000 portable toilets in use worldwide? That they call waste “effluent” (I’m kinda liking that word)? And that they have developed a Special Events Usage Guide?

I know, me neither.

Those portable sanitation people are some helpful folk.

To top it all off, the nice folks at the PSAI hand out the M.Z. “Andy” Dump–I mean–Gump Award which is a “lifetime achievement award honoring those that have improved the image of the industry and have created innovative approaches for sanitation needs through new and improved products and services.”

I want to party with these guys.

It started out as the most innocent conversation, but I was left with many questions.

A wad of rain-soaked clothes were left in my co-worker’s car resulting in a musty smell. He was telling me about the vast amounts of Febreeze he had sprayed in his car and was complaining that he could still smell the odor.

When I was younger we had dogs. We always used Lysol to clean up after the puppies while they were being housebroken. The puppies in my life pre-dated my children, and therefore my tolerance of poop, so I would often gag when I was forced to pick up the poop. The smell, the consistency, the little remnants left on the floor; I still associate the smell of Lysol with it all.

It was this I was telling my co-worker–that if I smell Lysol now I would swear to you that it smells like puppy poop–when he made an unexpected connection to my story.

Him: “Oh yeah. That’s just like when I smell someone who has on my jerk-off lotion.”

Me: *blink. blink*

It takes a lot to leave me speechless, but I definitely didn’t see that coming.*

*Heh, I said “coming”.*

So I let this information sink in–about five seconds goes by–and then it begins to happen.

I have questions!

Me: “You have jerk-off lotion? Is this special lotion? Do you only use it for that purpose or do you just use whatever you happen to have around? Can’t you just do it with a dry hand?”

And he actually began to answer them.

We work in a very small consulting firm, so this conversation is not as inappropriate or uncomfortable as it sounds. He’s in his late-twenties. It’s the 20-something boys I know who keep me hip to the whole single scene. Not that I don’t respect them, but I do sort of look at them like animals in the zoo–observing their behavior and being grateful that I live on the other side of the bars.

It was a bunch of young, male, former co-workers who taught me years ago about the prevalence of manscaping and the expectation of Brazillians for the women they dated when I still thought all that grooming was reserved for the porn set. Seriously, you ever think you want to be single again? Just talk to a bunch of late-twenties males. You’ll run home to your spouse at lightening speed.

Anyway, so he starts answering me.

Him: “Yeah. I haven’t gone without it for like 10 years. It’s nothing special, but I usually have two bottles, one in the bathroom for regular use and one in the bedroom.”

Me: “What if your girlfriend develops a sudden case of dry skin and sees the bottle of lotion by the bed and just starts slathering it on? Do you run to stop her?”

Can you just see that all in slow motion? “Nooooo. Not THAT lotion.”

Him: “Not at all.”

Me: “But then she’ll remind you of…um…jerking off?”

Him.: “Yeah! I know. That’d be awesome.”

Um. I don’t think she’d think so.

So now I have a challenge.

I have between now and our next holiday party in December to figure out a way to delicately suggest that she might want to bring her own lotion with her to her boyfriend’s house.

And I swear the next poor guy I see in the lotion aisle at CVS is going to be so sad he met me.

“So how do you decide which brand?”

“Are you brand loyal?”

“What if there’s something different on sale?”

“What features are you looking for?”

“Wouldn’t lube work better?”

“Do you prefer scented or unscented?”

I just have so many questions…

*For the record, I’m not a prude. It wasn’t that I was unfamilar with the concept, I just never thought that’s where the conversation was going to take us.

Sometimes I feel like a bucket that’s sprung a hole at its seam.

On the outside all looks well, but I feel empty on the inside. The things that should normally fill me up are washing out as quickly as they’re poured in–so much so sometimes that there is barely any residue left by their presence.

I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or frustration or restlessness, but I need to feel full before I begin to collapse in on myself.

Tomorrow I may feel completely different.

I hope I do.

Because today, I worried to myself that I was becoming a black hole, and a black hole by its infinite nature is impossible to fill.

But then again, I tend to be a worrier.

Let’s chalk this all up to hormone fluctuations and an impending birthday. I used to love them, but now I’m looking at the number and wondering what it is I’ve accomplished and what it is I have ahead of me.

I desire change.

I know I’m the only one who can make it.