Thank you to everyone who took the time yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.

I turned fifty.

Except I didn’t. I turned forty-nine. Apparently, I spent so much time preparing to be almost fifty that I skipped a year in my own head (I did this approaching forty, too, so apparently I am just broken). So, hurray for me. A bonus year of life, courtesy of my inability to remember how old I am. My nephew, Cathy at curling, and the small but amazing group of friends I call family have all enjoyed that particular blunder.

I’ll take it.

This year passed much like the rest. I got up, got dressed, went to work, and survived. Answered emails. Made decisions. Made dinner. Curled. Wondered why it was only Tuesday and then, approximately eleven minutes later, how it was already October.

This feels like the year that everything broke.

The oven/stove. The ice maker (again). The hot water heater. The water main. Even our trees got sick and needed a tree doctor, because apparently standing in the yard photosynthesizing now requires specialized medical care.

There are bastard invasive emerald ash borers in our area. Specifically, in my trees. One succumbed. The other, my favorite since my cherry died of the blight, gods rest him, got injections. Yes, injections. It will need them every two years for the rest of its life, at whatever the going rate happens to be. Currently, $500.

We found a core from the tree that died. I counted its rings. Seventy-three. And it broke me in a way I didn’t know I could be broken. So $500 for a maybe seems a small price to pay to keep another tree alive. And preserve my sanity.

I went into debt keeping things functioning and dropped almost three thousand dollars on my ten-year-old car so it could continue taking me to the job that pays for keeping my ten-year-old car functioning. Then Subaru charged me 3.5% for using a credit card, and now we’re in a feud.

If you know a good mechanic, consider that my birthday wish.

But somewhere between work and repair bills and whatever fresh bullshit was waiting in my inbox or my yard, I also lived.

I went on an epic adventure through Central Europe with my best friend and ride or die. We like to say we do this every two years, but really, we just try to get together, stay connected, and remind each other how cool we are and how important we are to each other.

I love our trips, but over the years, and this year especially, I’ve come to realize it’s not the destination, it’s the friendship. Whatever the hell that means. The point is, I have a cheerleader and a confidant. I’ve learned that you don’t need a lot of friends if you have one or two great ones.

Anyway. Budapest. Slovenia. Graz. Prague. Places I’d wanted to see became places I’d actually been, with memories attached to them instead of someday plans. I came home with more stories and, predictably, more places I wanted to go. Or, better yet, retire.

I spent a week and a half driving my parents around Costa Rica, including a few lucky days with my brother, sister-in-law, and favorite nephew, Leo. We saw a volcano, turned cookies into jokes, and ate something, either cheese or fish, that I’m pretty sure poisoned me. I learned to commune with bees and rekindled my appreciation for wildlife and sunsets.

I went to New Jersey for a birthday and a bat mitzvah. To Virginia for a fiftieth. Two young women and one young man graduated, whom I still think of as girls or boys that in some weird way I helped raise, which seems wildly inconsiderate of them. I’m fairly certain they were children about six months ago. I missed one graduation party, but made two others.

I tried. And mostly, I showed up.

That sounds simple, but there were versions of those plans where I stayed home. Where I was too tired, too busy, too consumed by the logistics of getting there or the work waiting when I got back. Where I said, “I wish I could,” and meant it, but let that be the end of the conversation.

This year, I started trying a different answer. I wanted to aim for the hard yes instead of the easy no.

I hated it.

I found myself overcommitted, spending money I didn’t have on flights and hotels, agreeing to time I didn’t want to give. I backed out of some things. I had work. Curling. My cats needed me. I was trying to embrace the uncomfortable while actively looking for a way out of it.

Oddly enough, the yes was easiest at work. I started saying yes to requests, or at least looking for ways to make a yes possible, even when saying no would have been easier and well within my rights.

Some of this came from getting older. I kept thinking about that line from The Shawshank Redemption: “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” I wanted to be present. To make time for the people who mattered and leave room for opportunities that might not come around again.

Some of it came from a book study my superintendent started on Unreasonable Hospitality. He challenged us to go just five percent further. To consider what else we could do to make someone’s experience better. I started looking for places where I could give a little more.

And some of it came from the Ted Lasso reboot. An episode called “Yes, and, Baby.”

And YES, you have to say “baby” in the Coach Beard voice or it doesn’t work.

That little phrase stuck with me. I started paying attention to how quickly I could find a reason to say no, how easily an invitation could become another thing I didn’t have time for. And I started wondering what might happen if I gave the yes a little room before shutting it down.

Yes, I could go, and maybe come home at a reasonable hour or the same day. Yes, I could try something new. And maybe I’d be terrible at it. And maybe that would be fine.

I think I did pretty well. But I also had moments that reminded me I could do better. That’s okay, though. At least I have something to write about next year.

I also started my twenty-seventh year in my school district, and in my chosen field. I found a home here. I’ve thought of leaving on occasion. But I never did. Now I’m too invested to take that leap. Not that I would… this place… this job… this work… it’s been good to me. I belong here. I feel at home here. I love it. It makes me whole. And I think it loves me. Sometimes staying is a mature decision in its own right. Even when you spend twenty-seven years occasionally wondering what adventures (or money) you might find somewhere else.

And, ironically, in this year of “yes, and…”, I also learned to say no.

Twice, professionally. I’m counting because this is apparently a significant enough development to require documentation.

After almost fifty years, I am beginning to figure out boundaries. Beginning being the operative word. I have not become a person who confidently says no and then goes about her day without revisiting the conversation seventeen times.

I’m still dealing with the guilt. Still resisting the urge to explain it again, soften it, or volunteer for something else to prove I’m helpful.

But the no stands.

I’m curious about what it might give me if I can leave it alone long enough to find out. A little room in the day. A little less resentment and guilt. Maybe enough energy to say yes to something I actually want to do.

I started playing pickleball, because apparently I am almost fifty and there are requirements. I’m proud to say I haven’t become an ER statistic yet. But give it time…

I still curl. Still love adventure. Still have my cats. My Tony. My work. All these familiar pieces of a life I love, even when I’m tired and irritated and googling whether a tree can recover without an expensive intervention.

I also discovered Dungeon Crawler Carl and fell in love, which was an unexpected development involving a man in his underwear and a cat named Princess Donut. I have willingly surrendered entirely too much sleep to them. At forty-nine, I apparently still need someone to tell me to turn off the light and go to bed.

I started a novel (another one).

But this time, I approached it without knowing how it ends, which is counterintuitive to practically everything I do professionally. I spend my days telling people to begin with the end in mind. Know where you’re going. Know what you want to accomplish. Plan accordingly.

Then I sit down to write and have absolutely no idea what these people are going to do next.

Fourteen chapters later, I love it.

I let my sister read it, well, some of it. Mixed reviews. Sisters will keep you humble.

I don’t expect it to sell. I would, however, like to know what happens next, and apparently I’m the person who has to write it to find out.

I’m writing what I know, in a voice that feels like mine. I feel drawn back to it when I’m doing other things. I think about it. Want to get home to it. Sit down for a few minutes and discover that hours have gone somewhere without consulting me.

For someone who spends so much time feeling consumed, it has been a surprisingly soothing way to lose track of the clock.

In two days, I’m heading to Barbados with Tony and my parents to celebrate my forty-ninth birthday and my dad’s eightieth.

Eighty.

Last year, I wrote about time and getting older, about how young my parents still seemed to me. This year, we get to take another trip together. Pack bags. Make plans. Spend time in the same place without having to fit it around everything else.

I’m grateful we get to do that. I’m excited to see what we’ll discover and come home with whatever stories we collect. I’m glad we said yes. And I know the memories we make will carry me through when I’m not on a tropical island, life isn’t in vacation mode, and reality, that bastard, comes crashing down.

So here I am at forty-nine, with some debt, fourteen chapters, a Subaru grudge, and a pickleball paddle. Still working. Still learning. Still falling asleep to horror movies. Still occasionally convinced I can finish one more chapter before bed.

I don’t know how the novel ends. I don’t know if saying no, or yes, will get easier. I don’t know what will break next, although I would appreciate the house taking a fucking year off.

But I have people I want to spend time with, places I want to go, something I want to read, and something I want to write.

And apparently, I have another whole year before fifty.

Yes, and, baby.