Best. Day. Ever.

Nearly two years ago I took my son to the beach for the first time in a long time. Well, it felt that way, anyway. Maybe that’s because it was the first time in a long time since I’d allowed myself to truly enjoy the beach.

And I did.

I even did cartwheels.

I was almost 40, and this was huge for me because even as I did the first one, I thought to myself: “You’re too old to be doing cartwheels.”

My inner child responded: “Screw that! No I’m not!” And I did another. And another.  And my son cheered and joined me, and declared it the Best. Day. Ever.

Later that year I started going to a new hairdresser. I didn’t venture far: this guy sits one station over from the woman who cut my hair previously. She told me on numerous occasions that I was too old to have long hair. Over and over again I allowed her to cut my hair short and in a style very much like hers.

Because I believed her. I was old, shouldn’t have long hair and didn’t do cartwheels on the beach with my son.

But the new hairdresser – Michael - told me otherwise. “Honey, you have beautiful hair. Let it grow.” And I did. No, it’s not fabulous long but it’s a lot longer, and I no longer feel compelled to keep it pulled back in a tidy ponytail.

And I still do cartwheels.

I do other things, too.

A few weeks ago, I took my son to San Francisco – where he was born, and where I dream of living once again. My son and I rode a tandem bike from Fisherman’s Wharf, down through the Marina, over the Golden Gate Bridge and into Sausalito. And while I had to walk the bike a couple of times (Hey, I’m nearly 42 now and hadn’t touched a bike in more than a decade!) we made the ride in one piece and had a great time doing it.

Later that day we still had the energy to walk up California St. from the Financial District up to Mason St., then down through Chinatown to North Beach.  I had trouble making that climb without huffing and puffing when I lived in San Francisco ten years ago, but had no problems doing it this time, chasing my son up the hill laughing all the way.

At the end of every day, the kid said: “Best. Day. Ever.”

At some point that weekend I started to realize how much has changed for me over the last two years. Through a lot of pain, sadness and general life difficulties, I was able to find strength in what is most important to me: my son.  The hair? Maybe it is to me what it was to Samson (I’m seriously just kidding). But It is emblematic of the youth that crazy hairdresser told me was lost forever.

This last weekend, my son and I went to the beach again. This time it wasn’t cartwheels that made me feel young. It was another bike ride, some sandcastle-building and a serious game of tackle football in the sand.  

At the end of the day, the kid said again: “Best. Day. Ever.”

It was.

And the next one will be better still.