Turn, turn, turn

So. I turned 45 last week.
So what? Well, I just can't believe it.
I've never been one to mbe particularly bothered by my age. My issue was never with being that age - but ideals I had of where I should be in my life by the time I reached a particular age.
I had the same reaction when I turned 25. And again at 35. Seems the "5s" give me the most problem.
My birthday was Tuesday, but it was not until Saturday that the familiar wave of overwhelm washed over me. I tried to battle it by organizing the house. Under certain circumstances I can battle the blues with normal household tasks. Closet-cleaning is a remarkable vaccine for depression - must be the Virgo in me.
I gave it a gallant try. I sorted socks and reorganized my nightgown drawer. I did several loads of laundry and washed the bathroom floor. As soon as I stopped, the feelings I was trying to dodge caught up with me,
Even the Ump could see my mood shift.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said with a big sniff. I wiped the tears away.
"Really, what is wrong?" he asked again.
"I don't know. I feel sad. I just want to cry," I told him, regretting it instantly because No. 1 he hates it when I cry and No. 2 because he feels like he needs to come up with a way to cure my problem.
On the one hand, it's nice that he cares enough to make an attempt. But one thing I have determiined to be true in my short married life is that men and women approach these things in very different ways. A woman is sad. She wants to share her feelings with someone, get a little sympathy or empathy or even a cup of tea. Other women know this and that is how they help their women friends, sisters, daughters, moms etc.
When men see their women upset, they want to fix the problem. They offer suggestions. "Don't cry. That won't help anything." Or "If you don't like your chubby legs why don't you start walking in the afternoon or work out?"
Valid suggestions, but they do not make women feel better. Sometimes we just want to wallow in it. Wade right into the swamp of sentiments and let our selves sink into melodramatic mush right up to our noses.
The key is to know when to take a breath and haul ourselves out of the muck.
So, I turned 45 last week. I had lunch with friends on Tuesday. Cried on Saturday. Ate cupcakes on Sunday.
It's all good.