It was a Friday the 13th sort of day...

…which is perfect, because those kinds of days are my favorite. And Friday the 13th this year fell into June, and at noon a wicked thunderstorm started breaking the heat we’ve been having. This was the kind of thunderstorm where you wonder if you should really be out driving in your tiny Honda Civic because the lightning is so big and everywhere and the rain is filling the road more quickly than the gutters can handle. Perfect Friday the 13th weather.

Today three black cats crossed my path. Two of them are temporarily living with me. The third is a friend’s, and he’ll start living with me tomorrow (when the other two leave). Normally, a semi-angelic white cat lives with me. Again, perfect Friday the 13th.

I turned 27 today. This, I think, is also perfect Friday the 13th.

Twenty-seven feels old. As if I should know something about how the world works. Or about how my life works. It is half my mother’s age. It is the age my mother was when she had me. And I am nowhere near birthing a child—but maybe birthing a career.

Twenty-seven is the age where many women just hang out for awhile. Each year they turn 27. Some women are young-looking 27’s, others older. I will not be staying at 27 because I don’t particularly like 27. Its factors are 3 and 9, which are not my favorite numbers. (It has a neat and tidy square root, though, which is cool.) I like the number 13 for obvious reasons, and it is a prime number. I also like the numbers 4 and 8, and when they are multiplied, they are 32. Maybe I will stay at 32—once I get there.

Twenty-seven is not the age when I’d expect to learn how to do a headstand. I thought I gave those up with gymnastics back when I was 11. Come to think of it, I really couldn’t do headstands then either--being upside down always freaked me out, and I could never grasp the whole balance thing.

This week I did a headstand in the middle of my living room without the help of a wall or another person. Getting my feet up shocked me so much that I quickly tumbled, elated with the euphoria of accomplishing something scary.

I immediately called my yoga-friend. “Mommy, mommy, mommy!” I said. “I did a headstand, and I did it all by myself!” (Okay, so that’s an exaggeration. But it does sound funny. It’s like I’m learning to write the alphabet or potty-training or something.) From New Mexico, my mother replied, “Are you trying to brag again?” Being my bestest yoga-friend, my mom’s body is also learning new things—like how to vanquish arthritic joints.

I’m not trying to brag. I’m making a statement. Headstands were scary. Friday the 13th sounds scary. But both are attractive. And both are nice things. And a headstand… that’s an accomplishment, honestly, and I’m not afraid to say that I’m stinkin’ proud of myself for finding the alignment. It’s certainly not a perfect headstand, but it’s my headstand. And I have my whole year of being 27 to work on it more.

So Happy Birthday, Self…
I’m glad you find the scary attractive
and
may you continue those headstands
turning the frightful
into the possible