That was then...

Last night, just before I feel asleep, I felt a cool "poof" next to my ear. It was the sort of sound one hears and feels when one is spooned up against another human.

Except I wasn't.

In the few seconds between the sound and feel of air and the realization that I was alone, not only in the bed, but in the house, I had what might be technically termed "heart palpitations".

Fully awake, I sat in bed and did what any sane woman would do in this particular circumstance. I Googled. Apparently it was either a) my imagination, b) a ruptured ear drum, or c) spectral visitors. I, of course, chose to believe it was an amorous apparition.

While I didn't feel any negative vibes coming my way, I was unsettled enough to lay in bed and listen for every creak and moan of the house, half convinced I'd see a ghostly shadow emerge from my closet. All of this wide-awakeness gave me time to ponder my previous post.

Coming down from the adrenaline rush that facing things that go poof in the night helps put life into perspective.

So I didn't finish my novel by my fortieth birthday. At least I wrote one. (Two if we count the God-awful first attempt at a full length novel that is buried deep in my computer never to be seen again.) If it wasn't finished by forty, well, I'll finish it at forty. I can spit polish this sucker in a year.

Also? I'd forgotten something. In my forties, I'm not supposed to care about the unrealistic societal standards women are held to. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, I'm supposed to thumb my nose at those standards, speak out against those standards, and proudly wear my wrinkles and extra skin. In other words, so the baby weight isn't gone. I can still run two miles.

I lay in bed in my cozy cottage and while I daily pine for two bathrooms, also love the fact that my low rent also means travel, parties, good wine. Very good wine, actually. I may not know how to knit, but I have a sister and a grandmother who do.

I've wallowed enough.

Some might say I've wallowed too much.

Most might say I'm overly melodramatic. Regardless...

It's time to shake off the dust of my thirties and boldly go forward. With new goals, new aspirations, new adventures. Let's face it, kids. My thirties were a ducking roller coaster of emotions and a good chunk of them were not good.

I may be afraid of the monsters under my bed and only pretending to be an adult, but I've got a phantom friend who likes to blow in my ear.

And that's just plain sexy.

Or a ruptured ear drum.