She's that certain age.

I turned 41 this week. That’s well into the ‘I can remember my mum and dad being 41’ realms of “oh my dragons, I’m old” band, right along side, “this means I am 7 years younger than my mum was when I made her a granny” (SHRIEK).

41 is okay. It’s better than dead, anyway, from which base you can only move up. It also means you can buy your own gifts – frugally – and not mind that you know what will be in the pile.

And it appears to be the year I embrace not only ‘less is more’ but also ‘I’m seriously considering yoga’.

It’s funny what can make a birthday perfect. I had a lovely weekend.

Like I say: I’m getting old. I quite like it.

I like to think I’m a reasonably interesting mix of things. I like to think I’m open minded, forgiving, experienced, thoughtful, kind, tolerant of difference, interesting enough and not entirely dull to be around.

I also know that inside I hear “old, fat, frumpy, embarrassing, dull, plain, opinionated, aggravating and abrasive”.

I suspect the truth falls, like the cross over section of a venn diagram, somewhere in the middle. Maybe a few of those things, on both sides, fall outside the circles.

I do know I’m pretty good at seeing how people work, even if sometimes I struggle to hold on to my temper or rationality at dealing with them. I do know I’ve clever at running things and seeing what needs to happen but less good at leading consistently from the front. I do know I lack patience with people who are negative or not team players. And I know I lack patience with people who don’t see my way is best. 😉

But I’m also generous and innovative and caring and I try to do as much as I can. I have a habit in my life of over promising my time. I don’t struggle to do that with work so much.

I’m a bit disorganised.

I also know – and this is something I have a great deal of difficulty remembering, that I’m a nightmare to live with. I’m anxious and needy and low self esteem and while I panic for 2 months out of every year that Max will probably just leave me for being so worthless, I forget what a poor reflection of his love and care for me that is, and how insulting it must be to cook for and care for and love and work with a person who thinks that at any minute you might just up and leave for some mythical better thing.

I’m not married to someone who finds big romantic gestures easy, which is a shame, because I kind of do need them.

But it does mean, on the 1 year in every 4 or so that he writes me a card with his affection clearly stated in it, that it is the very best gift I could possibly have.

Thanks darling. Best birthday ever. Sorry for, you know, all the stuff.