There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises. The first involves buying a red sports car you can’t afford. The second involves taking off everything you can afford—your clothes, your baggage, your ego—and standing barefoot in the moss.
To be continued in Part 2…
August 12th Location: Somewhere deep in the woods, where the Wi-Fi is weak and the spirits are strong There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises
The founder, a woman named Sage with silver dreadlocks and the posture of a redwood tree, greeted her at the welcome yurt. “Ah,” Sage said, looking at Paula’s anxiety like it was a familiar houseplant. “Newborn.”
That was the strangest part. She had spent 39 years building an invisible suit of armor—made of Spanx, apologies, and the way she sucked in her stomach when a camera appeared. And in one second, under the dappled light of an oak tree, the armor just... dissolved. To be continued in Part 2… August 12th
No one was seeing anything now.
And that’s when the storm rolled in.
She blew out the candle. She made her wish.