There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises. The first involves buying a red sports car you can’t afford. The second involves taking off everything you can afford—your clothes, your baggage, your ego—and standing barefoot in the moss.
Here’s the thing about being 39. You know your body. You’ve made peace with the C-section scar, the mosquito-bite mole on your left rib, the way your thighs ripple when you walk down stairs. But knowing your body and showing your body to 30 strangers while holding a kale smoothie are two very different things. There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises
Paula chose the latter.
Paula cried. Just a little. A single tear that rolled down her cheek, past her collarbone, and disappeared into the sacred, naked earth. Here’s the thing about being 39
To be continued in Part 2…