This is the first and only time I’ve blogged, if that’s even a verb anymore, from 28,000 feet. The last two days’ storiedly stormy Eastern Seaboard weather resulted in multiple flight delays from upstate NY, and, looking at the weather around MSP, I’m not certain I’ll be getting home anytime soon. The energy at the Charlotte airport is that of barely contained rage, where one small infraction could result in one massive overreaction that would lead us right into Lord of the Flies. But that’s not really why I’m posting, though if this brand–new 737 gets hit by a shimmering, crackling bolt, I guess these will be my last words. Jen, please provide the news stations with a flattering photo of me doing something badass.

I turned 45 a few weeks ago. I’m now, if ever so slightly, closer to 50 than 40. I remember when that seemed so very far away. Forty-five.

Forty-five. Plus. The stuff older women told me when I was a nubile 25-year-old, about how I’d care about stupid things less and less, and generally feel more confident in my own skin? That’s proven true.

Forty-five. Plus, a BIG plus. It only took me til 39 to have high, equal-partner expectations around men and relationships.

Forty-five. Minus. I’m consistently the old mom on the flag football field.

Forty-five. Plus. I’m motivated as ever to work hard, and it’s getting easier to win my age group in athletic endeavors.

Forty-five. Neutral. Still a young executive, but no longer exactly “young.”

Forty-five. Plus. I didn’t turn into one of those fading midlife women who resents pretty younger women, or treats them poorly. So thankful to not waste that energy. I lived through the other end of that, a few times.

Forty-five. Just is. I’m still vain and yes, I’ll do some things – skin care, hair color, nails, nutrition, and my favorite, EXERCISE – to adhere to conventional grooming & beauty standards. Yeah. I prop up the patriarchy.

Forty-five. Minus? I could fight it harder, I guess. Yet, there’s only so much slippery gunk that can be pumped into one’s face. Botox, which, yes, I’ve had shot into me few times, completely stopped working for me once I picked up running again and fired up my metabolism, so I’ll be somewhat forced into aging naturally. There’s a point where you ain’t fooling anyone anyway.

Forty-five. Minus minus minus. So many midlife adjustments. I can’t eat all the Doritos any longer. I can, oh trust me I can, but undoing the damage takes longer. Sleep has become much more elusive, and much … damper. Annnd, well, there’s other stuff happening, too. Stuff that can make it terrifying to leave the house. Stuff I think we as women should be more real about.

Stuff maybe we can thrive, or at least survive, through together.

This is a bit stream of consciousness and in dire need of editing, but I just got word we are rerouting through Iowa City, around the storms. Hopefully on the ground and on 94 shortly.