31 is crumbs in your keyboard and the perfect black heels that you hope will make it through another season. 31 is raising your hand and saying "Yes, I can get that done for you" while thinking "That's not fucking possible" and then doing it anyways. 31 is delivering, over and over, until they do it your way.
31 is laughing out loud in the way that made your grandfather beam. 31 is silver and gold, and keeping an open heart with the bronze. 31 is polishing what's worthy of elbow grease.
31 is rigidly straight enemy grey hairs. 31 is eye cream and a prayer that you inherited your mom's agelessness. 31 is junk in the trunk and the familiar ache in your right knee. 31 is owning it.
31 is coordinating pet sitters and filling up the water bowl. 31 is smooshy-face kisses and belly rubs and "hello my little plum, what did you do all day?" 31 is savoring the tail wag.
31 is vinyasa after yinyasa, well past when your arms tire. 31 is knowing that someday, out of the blue, you'll pop up into side crow. 31 is practice. 31 is showing up.
31 is cracking rental car deal codes. 31 is forgetting your car charger and knowing all the right shortcuts to get home before the battery dies. 31 is watering your roots.
31 is loving people, well past when your heart hurts. 31 is knowing that someday, out of the blue, you'll master the balance between vulnerability and boundaries. 31 is mustering grace. 31 is letting go instead of being dragged.
31 is well-laid plans and "oh, shit" moments. 31 is remembering that nobody really knows what they're doing anyways. 31 is winging it.
31 is being free, defined your way. 31 is truth, even when it hurts. 31 is being grounded, only by things of your choosing. 31 is thriving, in spite of it all.