It Goes On and On

When I was a kid, I used to beg my Mom to come wake me up on my birthday well before I needed to wake up, at 6:40am on the dot.  I was born at 6:40am, you see, and I have always wanted to be awake as I shift into the next year.

Now that I'm a grown-up, with no Mom to knock gently on my bedroom door and wish me a happy birthday, I've started my own version of this same tradition.  The night before my birthday, I set my alarm for 6:39am.  The next morning, in that last minute of whatever age I'm leaving, I reflect back on my past year, wishing Godspeed to the year that was...and, as the digital numbers switch to the next minute, silently usher in the next year I've been given with good tidings.

An ex-boyfriend of mine used to think this was a silly tradition.  "Why not enjoy the extra minutes of sleep you could get on your birthday?" he'd always ask.  But I like the idea of being aware - I always have.  And if each birthday is the start of another trip around the sun, I would like to be awake and witness its beginning.  We're in it together, each year and I, so we might as well start off on a really great note, right? 

This year, for the first time in my life, I also happened to snap a photo from my bed in that first minute of 34.

My birthday weekend up in Maine was lovely, with stunning views and beautiful scenery.  I was surrounded by some of my favorite people on this planet - the type of friends that you actually can't ever imagine not knowing.  We ate delicious food, drank wine, and laughed until our sides hurt.  I went to bed Saturday night grateful that I have these souls in my life, anxiously excited for all that will unfold in my 34th year.

In October I am traveling to Morocco.  The whole adventure deserves a post in and of itself, so I'll leave the details and specifics for that entry that is to come.  Part of the prepping, packing, and planing necessary for this journey was making sure all suggested immunizations and shots were up to date, something I've been focusing on the past week.

Yesterday, I left work to make my way over to the travel clinic near my office to get my Typhoid, Hepatitis A, and Polio booster.  As is typical, I was in a hurry to get there and was walking along at my usual fast pace...right up until I took the biggest digger I think I've ever taken in my entire life.  There are falls that can be funny, falls that look worse than they actually are, and falls that make you wonder what you even tripped over in the first place.  This fall was...exactly none of those.  I tripped on a raised portion of the sidewalk in front of a huge bank.  At first, when my foot initially got caught in the sidewalk I thought I'd be able to "walk out" of the trip...speeding up my stride to catch my balance.  That didn't work.  Before I knew it I was sprawled out on the ground, falling in the least graceful way possible, banging up my right knee first, then landing on my left elbow, and finally smashing both hands into the concrete when, by reflex, I stuck my hands out to try and brace my fall.  (I know they always tell people not to do that -- there's too much of a chance you'll break or sprain your wrists given the amount of weight put on your hands, etc.  But to "them" I say this -- have you ever successfully, in the 0.2 seconds it actually takes to fall, been able to get word to your brain to not have your hands go out in front of you?  Exactly.)

There I was, dazed and confused and sprawled on the sidewalk, my precious new birthday bag laying beside me, most likely flashing everyone on the corner as I'm almost certain my dress flew up to my waist with the fall as well, and one of my very first thoughts - as I blushed and stammered "I'm okay, I'm okay" to the one person who was kind enough to come over and check on me, was - fall seven times, stand up eight.

It wasn't actually until I'd stood up and hobbled a block or so further that I even realized how badly bruised and torn up I was - looking down to see one's own knee gushing blood will do that I suppose.  I made my way into the health clinic (how appropriate) and the minute I met the physician's assistant who was going to administer my shots,  told her about my fall.  What a way to break the ice!  She patched me up as best she could though, handing my piles of gauze and band-aids before getting down to the business of reviewing my immunization records.

Eventually I left covered with even more band aids, two on my right arm, and one on my left, each serving as a little reminder of the shots I'd just received, of the adventure awaiting around the rapidly approaching corner.  It wasn't until I left the doctor's office that the pain of my knee and my elbow's road rash combined with the shots really started to hit me.  I didn't shed a tear, but the waves of emotions and adrenaline flooding through me certainly made me feel like I was about to cry.  So I did what any 34 year old would do in that sort of a situation. 

I called my Mom.

Okay.  So 34 might throw me a few curve balls here or there, and I'll certainly make a misstep or seven through the next year. Hell, I may even land face first on the pavement, battered and bruised.

But I'll get up.  By now I know myself well enough to know that I will always do my very best to keep getting up.

Especially when I've got my new monogrammed - in gold! - birthday treat bag thrown over an arm.  Even if said arm happens to be covered in band aids.