XXX

I am thirty years old today. My baby is sleeping on the floor (having been sung to sleep by Mom, who's visiting for a week) and my husband is sleeping in the bedroom. I'm sitting cross-legged on the comfy couch in my living room, recently cleaned, and the sun would be shining in if we didn't have the curtains closed so Chloe could sleep better. I'm in my prepregnancy jeans and typing on my little netbook, and tonight Eric is making brownies for my birthday (I'm not all that fond of cake, so it's brownies and ice cream and strawberries instead). It's a good day to be thirty. I keep thinking that birthdays will change me, for some reason...maybe because everyone asks, and gets asked, the same stupid question: "Do you feel any different?" I don't feel any different, and I never will. I just feel like me. I think that's pretty good.

Not even a year and already I'm psychoanalyzing him.

I did a bunch of work in the yard this weekend. I feel better for it, even though my back was twinging a bit last night. Apparently I really did get older; that never happened before.

Mom sent me two outfits--both rather lower-cut than I'm comfortable with--and a big black handbag, which is, she said, to replace the dreadfully old and out-of-fashion one I own. Said old and out-of-fashion purse is as sturdy and useful as ever, and considerably more reasonable-sized than the new one, at least until I become a mom, so it's not getting thrown out but I will use the new one. Eric didn't get me anything. "Your present from me isn't here yet," he said. "It's on its way?" I said, brightening because I hadn't expected him to have ordered anything. "Well, no," he said.

I then explained that while I don't necessarily need more stuff--an offer to cook dinner or vacuum (which is my job) would have been just as much or more appreciated than a book or a CD--it would have been nice to believe that he thought about me when I was not immediately before him. I would say, "Not even a year of marriage and already he's forgetting my birthday," but the thing is, he didn't forget; he just didn't do anything about it, even though he knew he ought to and voiced an intention to. He had a rough weekend, though, so I didn't push it as much as I would have liked to. There's also the question of whether his overall mood and outlook these days--i.e., possible depression or possible overmedication--is affecting his ability to get things done. He's been sliding on his homework, but then he always does that, so I don't know.

The next few days may bring that to a test, as I'm going to Pennsylvania for a training class. I'm using my new handbag to take on the plane with me. I'm in my usual "What did I forget to pack?" mode, which is normal and therefore not worrisome. This will not exactly be a vacation, but woohoo for something different!

Spoiled

Now the crazy clients have brought in the lawyers. "It's not technically breaking confidentiality if you send this information to a third party..."

Also the coworkers have got the fever. My one coworker asked me to do a couple of routine things for a client this morning. Fine; I did them, sent them to the client who had requested them, and copied the coworker to let him know it was done. "That won't work," wrote Mr. Coworker. "Here, look at this instead." Attached was a file that explained clearly what he wanted--which was nonroutine, though certainly not undoable, and which I had had no indication of before. Here's a hint, Mr. Coworker: you get faster results from me if you tell me what you want BEFORE I do it. With this revolutionary method which may not have occurred to you, not only do I get it right the first time, but there's no delay before I start my second attempt because I'm ignoring your message most of the day in order to get a grip on my temper.

I got home later than I liked because of this do-over, and spoiled my dinner with oranges and chocolate-chip cookies. I've got cinnamon roll dough rising in the kitchen--my yeast came, and my precious 3 lb. of organic pumpernickel flour, though that's not in this batch of dough--for my birthday breakfast. This weekend I shall garden and bake and write and goof off--and turn twenty-eight.

Mostly bad beginnings

Well, this week isn't starting out much better than last week. However, this may be due partly to my mood. Eric's having health issues, James is having (more) health issues, my birthday's coming up, and it's That Time of Month. Of course work isn't all that calming or appealing right now.

Eric is on a couple of seizure medications, and last winter he had a scare when he thought they weren't working and we went to the ER. It turned out actually to be a potassium deficiency, but he got on extra medication anyway due to some side effects of his epilepsy he'd been noticing have increased in intensity. This stuff--Keppra--has made him a lot more tired. This past week, on his spring break, he's gotten almost nothing done because he's been tired and listless; part of this seems to be that he has no structure or stimulating influence--such as his wife nagging him--to do things, but he feels part of it is the medication, too; he's been having this problem for a while. He's going to get an appointment with his epileptologist this week, and he's going to try taking a loser dosage of the Keppra to see if that helps. I am on changed-behavior watch.

James's doctor called him Friday and said, "I got your blood test results. Um, how are you feeling?" Apparently his lipase levels are abnormally high, which is a bad sign. James is on a liquid diet (which is making him exceptionally crabby, he says) and will be getting an MRI on Tuesday, whether he can pay for it or not. Fortunately his boss is being supportive and is actually getting him on insurance early to help him out; that may take effect tomorrow or it may happen on April 15, depending on what the insurance company has to say, but at any rate he can wait two weeks. Then, another surgery and, with luck, a solution.

I talked to Mom last night and she said, "So, I'm not sure I'm supposed to tell you this, but...have you talked to James lately?" I assured her I knew what was happening, and she talked about it, mentioning that James had consulted Dad and received his advice to get it checked out and she was glad he had done it early this time. I'm pretty sure I'm the one he consulted, or at least first. I could see him not telling our parents that he talked to me, either so as not to hurt their feelings or to protect me from them being upset that I knew he was in trouble and hadn't told them. I also think it's kind of amusing, and kind of sad, how much the four of us keep things from each other, just to try to keep each other's worrying to a minimum.

I'm not too concerned about the birthday except I'd like to be able to do something for it and can't really, and I mentioned to Eric that I might want to skip the symphony (which is on that day) and he dismissed the idea instantly. So we're going out to dinner at an inexpensive Mediterranean place instead, either before or after the symphony, and I don't know what I'll do otherwise. The normal Saturday thing, I imagine.

At least it's gotten warmer. I'm going to work in the yard tonight if at all possible, and I have seeds to start and, when my order of yeast gets here, bread to bake. I tried the no-yeast pumpernickel recipe over the weekend and it turned out terribly. But I have the other pumpernickel and a multigrain sandwich and a gruyere bread recipe I want to try soon. And there are plants that need tending and dirt that needs spreading and shrubs that need trimming. Eric predicts this year we'll have no spring at all, that it won't truly warm up until it suddenly becomes hot and humid. It's happened before, he says. I suppose at least it'll be good tomato weather.

Declamations from the height of my great age.

It's my last day to be twenty-six. There will be no birthday celebration, unless you count the angelfood cake and sweetened strawberries that I made myself yesterday and will be eating with Eric tonight, and no birthday present until I order my spinning wheel, which I haven't done because I don't feel the time is right. (What's really going on is that I'm in the miser phase of my financial-emotion cycle. Wait until I get back to the eager-to-buy side, otherwise known as Being My Father's Daughter.) And I'm okay with that. I want to ease into twenty-seven anyway.

I'm starting to notice true signs of aging--very slight, of course; but I'm definitely not as limber as I used to be, or as easily recovered from a night of little sleep. And of course there are all the mental adjustments that I continue to go through: am I really mostly through my twenties? Do I feel like an adult yet? How did I get here? Am I satisfied with how I've spent my time? How do I improve myself for the future? What do I really want out of my remaining time on the earth, and how do I get it?

Which is not to say I consider myself old or anything. I don't suppose people often do; you don't live seventy or eighty or ninety years all at once, but one day at a time, and one day is the only rock we have on which to stand. But I know I've now got probably a third of my life behind me, and I still don't know what's ahead. This whole getting married thing has helped with that, but only a little; I'll be living here two years, then on the West Coast two years; we hope to have children, and fairly soon; and that's about it. These things help to shape my awareness of the future and my plans for it, but they only help.

As a twenty-six-year-old, I have worked at a job I didn't like with horrible management; found a job I do like with good management (and much better pay); lived with someone else for the first time since 2002 and for the first time ever with a guy (well, one not related to me); planned most of a wedding; taken up gardening; saved quite a bit of money (oh, there's another post related to that--maybe tomorrow, if it's resolved then); worked on clarifying what actually makes me happy. There's more work to do, of course, but that's life.

One thing I need to do as a twenty-seven-year-old is sort out my hobbies and time-drains so that I actually have time to work on some things. And walk more. One thing about my previous job, it made me healthy (mainly because I spent as much time as I dared running up and down the stairwell, partly for exercise and partly out of frustration). I'm afraid I will not look buff and impressive in my wedding dress. But I'll look like me, which is what I'm working towards being all the time.