Woman Celebrates Half Birthday; Facebook Declares Her "Mature"

On half-celebrations and finding new routes

I had a half birthday this month. I selected the verb “had” instead of “celebrated” in that sentence, because, by all accounts, the occasion was uneventful. I only recognized it when I wrote the date, then simply grunted my acknowledgement (cheers!). 

But for the children in my family, half birthdays are a big deal. After all, you are no longer 6 — you are 6 and a HALF. So, I would like to announce the breaking news that I am no longer 37; I am now 37 and a HALF. That’s either halfway to 38, or halfway to 75, depending how you do the math. 

Facebook must have picked up on the fact that it was a special day, because that very afternoon, I received an ad in my feed directed toward “mature women.”

(Is that an advertising strategy?) 

Well, let me tell you about the half birthday of a “mature woman.” To start with, I was bleeding all day. I’m sorry if that is too much information, but this is a mature woman’s essay. Even though the current state of my life says two children (plus an angel baby on the other side) are enough for me to handle, Aunt Flo likes to pop by every three weeks for a little porch chat. You know, we could pause all this for the low price of nine months’ indigestion and a lifetime extension on sleepless nights, she says.

(Again: is that an advertising strategy?)

Side note: of course I’m being facetious—I realize conversations about cycles and babies are quite tender for women everywhere, for all sorts of reasons. I honor the range.

Speaking of children, on the afternoon of my half birthday, I tried to drive to a second grade soccer game. I say “tried” because, a little over halfway there, I was blocked by a police van. One minute, I was driving down a busy road near the soccer complex, and the next, a police van ahead of me had turned sideways and started flashing its lights, preventing any through-traffic. I was the first car in line to get stopped, or the last to make it through, depending how you look at it.

The officer got out of the van and made a “turn around” signal to me with her hand. This was a busy, one-way road, so I rolled down my window and said something like, “Excuse me, officer, if you haven’t noticed, we can only go one direction here, and there are a lot of cars behind me, so what exactly are you asking me to do?” I think I said it in a more polite way, but you get the idea.

“You’ll just have to turn around,” the officer answered nonchalantly, like this was a simple instruction, even though there were now dozens of cars lined up behind me.

My family was already at the soccer game. I happened to be driving to the game alone because, just before leaving the house, I had called my dad frantically to ask for his advice about a mistake I made on a financial form. My dad assured me this mistake was correctable, but also that I would need to correct it, and the idea of doing more math sent me spinning. While I was on the phone with my dad, acting like a worried 16-year-old instead of a responsible, mature woman, my husband dashed by, carrying jackets and water bottles. 

“It’s time to leave for the soccer game!” he yelled. (This is the phase of life we are in– romantically passing each other on our way to sporting events.) 

“Just leave without me!” I yelled back.

He did. Which is how I ended up alone, blocked by a police van, trying to find an alternate route to the soccer game. Unfortunately, the soccer complex is in the middle of a large park–not exactly an easy place to simply drive around the block. At one point, after driving around aimlessly for a bit, I texted my husband: “I’m stranded by the zoo.” 

“You’re close then,” he responded, and he was right. Unfortunately, I was on the wrong side of the zoo. Between me and the soccer fields were hundreds of would-be wild animals. 

When faced with wild animals, I decided to choose what any reasonable, mature woman might: I gave up on the soccer game and drove to Panera. The kind server at the counter offered me a free cup of lukewarm decaf (the good people at Panera have been offering me a lot of free decaf lately, bless them). And because I am 37-and-a-half years old, I sat down in a booth and immediately called my mother. You’re never too old to call your mother, and I count myself among the luckiest to still be able to call mine at this age. Frazzled, I rattled off the rough day I was having and she suggested, quite wisely, that maybe I should “enjoy the extra minutes of quiet.”

I tried. I did. But all I could think about was how I needed more ibuprofen (which strikes me as a very “mature woman” concern), so I finally got up and walked a block to the grocery store, then headed across the street for a workout class.

This was my first time working out without a mask in years, and I was facing a mirror—which means I had to stare a mature, 37.5 year old woman square in the face throughout the entire class.

During that hour, I watched a woman who, in so many ways, is starting over again. A woman who nearly got taken out by the last few years (I do not say that lightly), and who has seen and experienced a few things she would have rather avoided. A woman who misses parts of herself from just a few years ago, when she was naive(r) and fit(ter), and who still phones her parents on frantic afternoons. 

But also, the woman in the mirror was still moving, still showing up. And because I know that woman pretty well, I happen to know she has been tackling some challenges lately and working to find paths forward, even when her previously-planned routes have become blocked. A half birthday, as it turns out, is a good time to practice being smack in the middle of something and discovering you can still find a route somewhere, even if only to Panera for free decaf and a call to your mom. 

As far as this mature woman is concerned, it is always a good day to call your mom. Even at halfway to 75–er, 38.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Breaking News."