42

 On the eve of my 42nd birthday I found myself alone in the gym at eight in the evening, running. Stephen had given me strict instructions to keep my heart rate up in order to get his crucial Vitality points. I pointed out to him that my wearing his watch would earn him Vitality points no matter what activity I do, even if it's just walking to the fridge. I'm not exactly ready to run a marathon, or run in general. 

I also checked myself into the gym last night because my reflexologist, (shout out to the phenomenal Lauren Shattock Hammersley) mentioned in my last treatment that my legs might be feeling a bit heavy. Legs do generally feel heavy if you haven't bothered to lift them in over six months. 

The good thing about running in a gym, alone at eight o'clock at night is that no one can hear you breathing. Not even I could hear myself breathing. If it weren't for headphones I would never, ever exercise. It's a lot easier to punish a treadmill with one's sluggish strides pretending to scour the Scottish glens like William Wallace's daughter than it is to listen to the middle-aged rasping of a woman who has perhaps let herself go. 

It was towards the end of my very punishing gym session - which included some very worrying gastrointestinal action while I was doing planks - that I realised that I had been looking at the wrong number on Stephen's watch and that I was, in fact, probably on the verge of a heart attack. 

I decided that after this workout Discovery would probably crown me as the Ultimate Survivor given how high and how long I accidentally kept my heart rate up for, either that or an ambulance was on its way. This was a crucial workout to save and it took me so long to work out how to use Stephen's watch that by the time I had saved the workout my heart rate had returned to normal. 

I then walked through the glorious Kearsney mist taking in my beloved campus. There's something intense about living on a school campus. The spirits of boys past linger everywhere. I've been at Kearsney for ten years now. That's a lot of love, and tears, and late nights and pure joy to be found in the bricks that make this place. 

When I got home I wasn't quite ready to hit bath time and bedtime so I found a spot on our driveway that isn't covered by our security cameras and where I know the children wouldn't see me... and I danced. 

A friend of mine, who is also 42, said how she just wishes she could have a jol and dance. So I did just that. I danced like myself. And it was glorious. I had to occasionally duck behind our cars when the kids meandered into line of sight. But that actually made it all the more fun. 

You know you've hit middle age when you get a thrill from hiding from your security company and your children. 

And while I was dancing I thought of the people waiting on the other side of my front door and a deep wave of gratitude rolled over me. The privilege of wanting to go home is one I will never take for granted. 

And so today, as my birthday sparkler fizzled out after birthday lunch with my mom, sister and all our babies, I sat, heavy legged, but light hearted. 42 is a great number. Maybe it is the answer to life, the universe and everything. Or maybe it's just a normal year, somewhere in the early mid forties. I'm sure this coming year will have it fair share of ups and downs. I'm always a little bit anxious at the start of a new cycle. But for now I'm going to remember dancing in the mist, Stealers Wheel blasting in my ears, jivving on my already cramping legs, thankful to God that there is so much to be grateful for.