March seems like a really big deal. I’ll turn 29 tomorrow and reach the very final part of my 20s, and then, this weekend I’ll run my first half marathon. The weekend after that, I’m off to Charlotte to run my first mud run of the year, a Spartan Sprint and, just before another trip to visit Andrew in Alabama, I’ll have my first wisdom tooth removed. It seems like a lot, a rapid fire sweep of things that are important and meaningful, and also, in the case of the wisdom tooth, awful and adult.
I keep trying to muster up some sort of care about my birthday and I keep digging around inside to figure out how it’s all making me feel, this entry into the final year of my 20s, but I keep coming up empty. I don’t really care. 29 isn’t 30. It’s not a milestone birthday in any way. I feel like I want to do things this last year as a 20-something, things like run my first half marathon and learn to swim and read a lot and go on at least one really amazing adventure, but the birthday itself doesn’t really seem like that big of a deal.
Really, the things happening in my life just seem far more important that the completion of another rotation around the sun. I keep nearly forgetting I even have a birthday this month because HOLY SHIT, I’M RUNNING A HALF MARATHON ON SATURDAY. That seems like a bigger deal to me than simply aging, especially when my life for the past three months has been a balancing act of trying to squeeze in solid runs in between a constantly shifting work schedule, travels to Alabama and all those pesky adult responsibilities I seem to have acquired.
But then there’s 28, which, when I take the time to think about it, was a really important year for me. I finally earned my Bachelors, and managed to graduate with honors nine years after I first started my undergrad adventure. Andrew moved to Alabama and I’ve spent most of 28 on my own, learning how I handle a house and four pets without the assistance of my better half. I went to Colorado, to spend four days with some amazing strangers for Wanderlust and got my yoga on at 9,000 feet. I’ve traveled back and forth from Alabama a handful of times and I started to get serious about running and, in doing all that running, learned a fuckton about the kind of person I am and the kind of person I want to be.
28 was rough at times, mostly because it was a year of transition, of unsure footing, and of constant change, but it was a good year too. I made a lot of progress this year, have stumbled and flopped into a whole slew of epiphanies and realizations about life and myself and my cats and my dogs and my marriage and the ways of the world, and I think I’m starting to like me more and more each year.
I feel wound up and ready. Ready to be 29, ready to run a half marathon, ready to throw myself into another year of running, ready to take care of spring and summer house things on my own and ready to see what’s next.