Hello, 39

Turning 39 is terribly unoriginal; so many people have done it before you almost wonder why you bother, but, then again, since the alternative seems rather unattractive at the moment I suppose one just carries on. By naming this blog 39something, my dear reader (and I am expecting about one), I also mean to say that I would also like to tarry here a while. 39 seems the right age. There's nothing wrong with 40 (plus), and I do intend to see those numbers go clicking by, but 39 has a nice ring to it; if nothing else,I have always thought of 39 as my lucky number. Maybe I'll annoyingly go on calling myself "39 something" for years.

Thinking of age, it seems that many of us have a "difficult" year when we are still fairly young, that year you just don't like your age at a time when it makes even less sense than usual to be unhappy about your number of trips around the sun. For me that was 20—as I said, it makes no sense. As a child, 20 always seemed to me like adulthood. At eight I thought 20 is when you get married and start your family (that's about all I thought adulthood was worth). At 19-going-on-20 I could see neither of those things were drawing very near at all; in fact, domestic life as I imagined it seemed to be fading. Thus, my twentieth year I denied my age all 365 days of it. I won't go on about all the obvious reasons my 20-year pessimism was laughable, but I will say that coming up on a threshold year, when the odometer seems close to rolling over two digits at once, for some of us provokes a little introspection and even some prospection. There I sit.

My thirty seventh year did all right by me. I had a loving partner whom I love—and like, thank you; I had the type of professorship I had dreamed of finding when I was in graduate school for years; I had a house I found both comfortable and affordable; my employer granted me a sabbatical for the Spring term to finally work on that book I had been ruminating about for three years; and, the pièce de résistance, we were expecting our first child that July. The year turned out lovely, indeed. My daughter was born healthy and happy; my partner came through pregnancy unscathed, also; on sabbatical I did lots of little things that were a good base to spring from; and I was on 65% leave in the Fall term to be home with my baby, which was an actual dream come true (19-going-on-20 me, it's going to be great for you!). Those months at home with my daughter were delightful, if sometimes exhausting, and the 35% work commitment gave me the needed sanity and professional value I needed. At the dawn of 38, we had the most amazing crepes and bid 37 adieu.

It seems unnecessary to prattle on about 38, but it should be forgotten; my professional goals were lost to others' goals and I felt myself losing the personal sense of direction I needed. Throughout the year, however, I had—and continue to enjoy—a loving partner, healthy child, warm home, stable job, full refrigerator, solid bank account, and well body; really, all the rest is just the monkeys in my head.

When I stop and think about it, I am living the life I want to live. The details sometimes get sort of out of place: the weeds in the side yard I ignored for a solid year (not exaggerating), the reports I never seem to submit on time, or the stress that my daughter passes on most offerings of green vegetables. In the moment they all seem terribly important to me, but the big picture is just fine—no, not "fine," "very good." The more I can remember that the less I get upset, not that I remember it that often.

In my early thirties I learned a lesson that applies to how I play the game, Monopoly: I cannot worry about how much money you have but rather how much money I have. That means to make sure I am OK financially (and all other ways) without worrying about how you and I compare. In the last couple of years I have slowly accepted that if a friend thinks less of me after seeing what a mess my dining table is, piled with mail and random junk, then perhaps our friendship is not so hot and I should care less about your opinion. I think now is the time I learn to turn that last lesson on myself, to worry less about the details when the big picture is so good.

This is not to say I am giving up on my visions for what I want to accomplish. I have some thoughts, hopes, goals, and plans for this year. It will be interesting, depressing, or fun to see how all that pans out, but if I can remember how much is right, then it will be OK.

Right?

Maybe?

We'll see.

So then, hello, 39! Let's make it a good year.