Today I Choose to be Excited – How to be Excited

Excitement at this age doesn’t look like it did in my 20s. It’s not nightclubs or wild adventures—it’s anticipation, quiet but deep. Like waiting to see Jesse’s latest stained glass piece, or planning a girls’ trip with my daughter-in-law, or even the thrill of opening a package with a new book I’ve been dying to read. Excitement is less about adrenaline now and more about joy in the marrow. I used to dismiss these little sparks as “not real excitement,” but honestly, they mean more to me than any rollercoaster ride ever did. It’s a different kind of thrill—one that lasts.

The Perfect Avocado Revelation

Last week, I got excited about finding the perfect avocado at the store. Actually excited. Did a little victory dance in the produce section. The twenty-something next to me looked at me like I’d lost it, phone already out, probably recording the crazy lady celebrating fruit.

But she doesn’t understand yet—when you’ve bought a thousand disappointing avocados, that perfect one is worth celebrating. When you know the difference between rock-hard disappointment and creamy perfection, when you’ve learned to read the subtle signs of ripeness, when you’ve been fooled by beautiful outsides hiding brown mush within—finding that one perfect avocado is like striking gold.

I held it gently, felt the slight give under pressure, noted the perfect dark green color with just a hint of yield at the stem. My heart actually fluttered. This wasn’t just an avocado. This was the culmination of decades of produce experience, the reward for patience and persistence.

At home, I cut it open with the reverence of a surgeon. Perfect green flesh, no brown spots, the pit releasing easily. I made the most beautiful guacamole, and with each creamy bite, I felt that excitement again. Pure joy over something so simple.

That young woman in the produce section will understand someday. She’ll have her own thousand disappointing purchases in some other area of life, and then she’ll know the thrill of finally finding the perfect whatever-it-is. And maybe she’ll do her own little victory dance, remembering the crazy lady who celebrated an avocado.

Tyler’s Random “Love You Mom” Text

Or the excitement of a text from Tyler just saying “love you mom” for no reason. My heart actually speeds up. My whole body responds—shoulders dropping, breathing deepening, that warm flush of maternal joy that starts in my chest and radiates outward.

It wasn’t his birthday. It wasn’t Mother’s Day. It wasn’t a response to anything I’d done. Just Tuesday afternoon, 2:47 PM, while I was folding laundry: “love you mom ❤️”

I stopped mid-fold, holding one of Curtis’s t-shirts, and felt this rush of pure happiness. My adult son, living his own life, had me randomly cross his mind in a loving way. No agenda, no need for anything, just love expressed spontaneously.

I texted back immediately—”love you too baby”—but the excitement lingered for hours. During dinner, I kept smiling thinking about it. Curtis asked what had me so happy, and when I told him, he smiled too. “That’s our boy,” he said, and I felt the excitement bubble up again.

It’s not bungee jumping, but it’s real, and it matters more than any manufactured thrill ever could. This is the excitement of connection, of being loved unexpectedly, of knowing that somewhere in his busy adult life, my son carries love for me that overflows into random text messages.

The Shift from External to Internal

Young excitement is loud and external—concerts where the bass thrums in your chest, parties that last until dawn, adventures that require passport stamps and adrenaline waivers. It’s excitement that happens to you, that depends on external circumstances aligning perfectly.

Midlife excitement is quieter but deeper—anticipation of a friend’s visit, the first tomato from your garden, finding a new author whose voice resonates with your soul. It’s excitement that happens in you, that you can cultivate and nurture regardless of circumstances.

The difference is profound. Young excitement requires planning, money, energy, and often other people’s cooperation. It’s high-maintenance excitement that demands optimal conditions. Midlife excitement is low-maintenance but high-impact. It finds you in ordinary moments and transforms them into something special.

I remember planning excitement in my twenties—booking trips months in advance, coordinating schedules with friends, building anticipation through elaborate planning. The excitement was real, but it was fragile. One canceled flight, one sick friend, one budget crisis could destroy months of anticipation.

Now my excitement is more resilient. If the friend can’t visit this weekend, I’m excited about the book I’ll have time to finish. If the tomatoes aren’t ready yet, I’m excited about the morning coffee routine that helps me notice their progress. If the new author disappoints, I’m excited about the surprise of discovering what I really do like.

The Anticipation Practice

I always have something small to look forward to. Always. It’s become my secret weapon against the heaviness that can settle into daily life.

Tuesday’s good coffee—the expensive beans I save for midweek, ground fresh, brewed in the quiet kitchen before anyone else is awake. I think about this coffee on Monday nights. I anticipate the ritual: the sound of the grinder, the smell of fresh grounds, that first perfect sip while reading something I’ve saved for this moment.

Thursday’s call with my friend Linda, who lives three states away but feels closer than most people in my zip code. We’ve been having Thursday afternoon calls for fifteen years now, and I still get excited Wednesday nights thinking about our conversation. What will she tell me about her week? What story will make us both laugh until we cry? What problem can we solve together over the phone?

Saturday’s farmer’s market, where I know exactly which vendor has the best tomatoes, which one gives the most generous samples, where I can find flowers that cost less than grocery store ones but last twice as long. I get excited Friday night planning my route, thinking about what might be in season, wondering if the honey guy will have something new to try.

These tiny excitements carry me through tough days. When Curtis had a doctor’s appointment that made my stomach knot with worry, I held onto Tuesday’s coffee. When work felt overwhelming, I thought about Linda’s laugh. When the news made me want to hide under covers, I remembered the farmer’s market flowers waiting for me.

It’s not denial or toxic positivity. It’s strategic excitement—choosing to plant small seeds of joy that will bloom when I need them most.

The Enthusiasm Choice

I choose to get excited about small things. This is deliberate, intentional, practiced. New socks? Exciting! Favorite show’s new season? Thrilling! Finding a parking spot right in front of where I’m going? Pure magic!

This isn’t fake enthusiasm or forced positivity. It’s recognizing that excitement is a choice, not just a reaction. I can choose to be excited about small pleasures, or I can dismiss them as too trivial to matter. I’ve tried both approaches, and excitement is definitely more fun.

When the new socks arrive—soft, colorful, no holes yet—I let myself feel that little thrill. When streaming services release something I’ve been waiting for, I clear my schedule and make it an event. When the parking universe smiles on me, I thank it out loud.

People think I’m easily pleased, and they’re right. But being easily pleased is a superpower. It means joy is accessible, excitement is renewable, and happiness doesn’t depend on grand gestures or perfect circumstances.

My granddaughter asked me why I get so happy about “boring grown-up things.” I told her it’s because I’ve learned that boring grown-up things are actually the foundation of a good life. Clean sheets, paid bills, groceries in the fridge, gas in the car—these aren’t exciting until you’ve experienced their absence. Now they feel like victories worth celebrating.

The Sharing Multiplier

When I’m excited about something small, I share it. “Look at this perfect avocado!” “Tyler texted!” “My tomato plant has buds!” Sharing excitement makes it contagious, multiplies it, turns individual joy into collective celebration.

Curtis now gets excited about avocados too. He’ll text me from the store: “Found a good one!” with a photo attached. My excitement infected him, and now we’re both members of the perfect produce appreciation society.

My daughter-in-law started sharing small excitements with me after watching me celebrate ordinary magic. “The coffee shop knew my order without me saying it!” “All the traffic lights were green!” “My favorite parking spot was empty!” We’ve created a chain reaction of noticing and celebrating small joys.

Even strangers get pulled in. When I do my avocado victory dance, sometimes other shoppers smile. When I exclaim over beautiful sunset light streaming through the grocery store windows, people look up and see it too. When I get visibly excited about something small, it gives others permission to do the same.

Excitement is permission. When you let yourself get thrilled about small things, you’re telling everyone around you that joy is allowed, that ordinary moments can be magical, that enthusiasm doesn’t have to be earned or justified.

The Physical Experience of Midlife Excitement

The way excitement feels in my body has changed. It’s less explosive now, more sustained. Less heart-pounding adrenaline, more warm spreading satisfaction.

When Tyler texts unexpectedly, I feel this gentle heat in my chest, like a coal glowing steadily rather than a firework exploding. My breathing changes—deeper, more relaxed. My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. It’s excitement, but it’s also relief, gratitude, recognition.

Finding that perfect avocado makes my fingertips tingle with anticipation. My mouth actually waters thinking about how it will taste. There’s a satisfied “yes!” feeling in my whole body, like every cell is celebrating this small victory.

Anticipating Tuesday’s coffee makes me sleep better Monday night. Knowing that pleasure is waiting for me makes my whole system relax. It’s excitement that soothes rather than agitates, that calms rather than stirs up.

This is excitement that doesn’t exhaust me. Young excitement often left me drained—after the concert, the party, the adventure, there was always a crash. Midlife excitement energizes me. It leaves me more alive, more aware, more grateful than I was before.

Excitement as Rebellion

In a world that tells midlife women to be practical, sensible, past the age of frivolity, choosing excitement is a form of rebellion. Getting genuinely thrilled about small things is a radical act of joy.

Society expects me to be beyond such “simple” pleasures. I should be focused on serious things—health concerns, financial planning, aging parents, family responsibilities. And I am focused on those things. But I refuse to let seriousness crowd out joy.

When I get excited about new books, someone always asks, “Don’t you have more important things to worry about?” When I do my happy dance over perfect produce, people imply I need more substantial sources of joy. When I share enthusiasm about small pleasures, I’m sometimes told I’m being immature.

But I’ve tried mature, serious, appropriate excitement. It’s boring. It’s also rare—if you only allow yourself to get excited about “important” things, you might wait months or years between moments of genuine enthusiasm.

I’d rather be inappropriately excited about appropriate things than appropriately bored by everything. Life is too short to ration joy, to save excitement for special occasions, to pretend that small pleasures don’t matter.

The Excitement Inventory

I keep a mental inventory of things that reliably excite me:

Sensory Excitements: The smell of bread baking, the sound of rain on the roof, the feel of clean sheets against freshly shaved legs, the sight of morning light through curtains, the taste of the season’s first strawberry.

Connection Excitements: Unexpected texts from my kids, running into old friends at the store, Curtis laughing at something I said, my granddaughter asking me to read to her, phone calls that start with “I was just thinking about you.”

Achievement Excitements: Finishing a book I loved, completing a project I’ve been putting off, figuring out how to use a new feature on my phone, cooking something that turns out perfectly, finding the exact thing I was looking for on the first try.

Discovery Excitements: A new favorite song, a book that feels written just for me, a restaurant that exceeds expectations, a route that avoids traffic, a store that carries exactly what I need.

Seasonal Excitements: The first warm day of spring, the first colorful leaves of fall, the first snow that sticks, the first firefly of summer, the first day cool enough for sweaters.

Having this inventory means I’m never far from excitement. When life feels heavy, I can choose from my list and create a moment of anticipation, of joy, of celebration.

Teaching Others to Find Excitement

My granddaughter watches me get excited about ordinary things, and now she does it too. “Grandma! Look! The elevator came right when I pressed the button!” Her face lights up with genuine joy over this small convenience.

She’s learned that excitement doesn’t have to be earned or justified. That small pleasures deserve celebration. That joy can be chosen, cultivated, shared.

I watch other people dismiss their small excitements, embarrassed to seem “easily pleased.” But being easily pleased is a gift, not a weakness. It means happiness is always within reach.

Today’s Choice

Today, choose to be excited about something small. That coffee you’re about to drink—really taste it, appreciate its warmth, its comfort, its perfect timing in your day. The book waiting on your nightstand—let yourself anticipate the pleasure of reading, of discovering where the story goes. The possibility that something unexpectedly good might happen—allow room for pleasant surprises.

Let yourself feel that little spark of anticipation. Notice what makes your heart lift, what brings a smile to your face, what feels like a small gift in an ordinary day. Share it with someone. Let them see you delighting in simple pleasures.

Don’t wait for big events to feel excited. Don’t ration enthusiasm for special occasions. Don’t apologize for finding joy in small things.

At 61, I’ve learned that excitement doesn’t require extraordinary events—it just requires an open heart and the willingness to feel joy about ordinary magic. The magic was always there. The difference is choosing to see it, to celebrate it, to let it light you up from the inside.

Your perfect avocado is waiting. Your unexpected text is coming. Your Tuesday coffee is brewing. Let yourself get excited about it all.