Today I turned 39.

If you slide your hand up the outside of my right leg, you will feel her-a deep, pulsating river zig-zagging against your palm. She breathes like a thunderstorm. She fades against the autumn air.

This is 39.

I have begun shoving things in my bra. Tissues, my cell phone, my writing notebook. Things are safe there, resting against the thump of my heart. I have no pockets.

This is 39.

My hair dying is now a necessity. Blood red dye against the white porcelain of my claw-foot tub reminds me of watching Psycho with my grandmother. Janet Leigh seemed so old to me then. She was an adult.

This is 39.

On Tuesday I moved a couch, a chaise lounge, a coffee table, a 10×10 rug, and then I moved them all back again. On Wednesday I saw my chiropractor and iced my shoulder.

This is 39.

I tell rude boys and mean girls to fuck off with ease.

This is 39.

On Friday nights I go to bed with Bill Maher and always fall asleep before New Rules.

This is 39.

I still make promises to myself, still feel there is ground to cover, choices to be made, journeys on which to embark. I still look to the stars with awe.

This is 39.