Late Bloomer

My first kiss happened in a Brooklyn dive karaoke bar when I was 37. It’s a great story. Thank God for good friends who make things happen.

I had my first real cocktails when I was 32. I took my first shot of whiskey at a firemen's party at 33 and experienced staying out clubbing until 4 am at 41.

I started mentoring at 16 and tried to quit it at 40.

I got Masters’ Degrees at 38 and 40 and still can’t say I know what I want to be when I grow up. Let’s be real, more school may be in my future.

And, while I for sure experienced a mid-life crisis at 40, I did that upside down too.

All that to say, I’m less than a week away from turning 44 and this late bloomer is in a reflective mood.

I used to hold so much shame for my life’s order of events. Rites of passage have often eluded me and I’ve described myself more than once as the girl who’s growing up backwards. I wonder sometimes if I’ve done all the things I’m supposed to do. Actually, I know for sure I haven’t. I still want to be a wife and a mom and I know I’ve crested the hill to the other side of that happening biologically. I’m now called ma'am in bars and things hurt that didn’t before. I have to pay attention to cholesterol and younger friends generally have to explain the newest viral trends to me.

And. I feel more deeply. I love more fiercely. I’ve visited 21 countries, get on airplanes for fun, and know both more and less of what I want. I chase sunshine every day, drink great whiskey, and laugh until my sides ache. Small miracles make me cry and I jump in every rain puddle. I have fewer f**ks to give and more grace all around. The older I get, the more I appreciate doing this thing we call life out of order.

So here’s to being a late bloomer. May I wear that title with pride. Flowers that bloom, whenever they do, are the best of all.