My birthday is this week.
I will be forty-nine years old.
A couple of years ago (okay, about 40 years ago), having birthdays was fun, and I looked forward to them with great anticipation and planning. My mom always made a big fuss, including letting me have a party with all of my besties and even a few girls I didn’t like, but who always brought cool presents. Plus—make that a BIG plus when it came to holidays, anyway—my mother had remarried. I had nine grandparents as a result, between grandparents, great-grandparents, step-grandparents and great-grandparents. Holy crap, it was a veritable gift bonanza! Why wouldn’t I relish celebrating my birth??
|Nine years young and dig that cool Barbie cake.|
Now, I’m staring another November 16th in the face and wondering where the hell the years went and how the hell did I get on the way wrong effing side of forty-five? Seriously, that’s freaking old. At least that’s what my kids think. I’m a mother of five and everyone keeps telling me kids will keep you young.
Time has continued to march on, and will continue to do so. Result? My right knee hurts and the left one is considering joining the Arthur club. I think about my bowels more (TMI? Sorry). I have chin whiskers, or as one of my author friends calls them, chin pubes. I have decided chiropractors are necessary, instead of the snake oil salesmen my college anatomy and physiology professor warned us of. I don’t have many gray hairs (at least not where you can see them. ‘Nuff said). Classic rock is now 80s music. So what does that make 70s rock? Oldies, but goodies? OMG, just shoot me now. But wait! There's more...
I got an invitation to join AARP.
No, I really DON'T want to join, thanks, though.
But moving on and finding the silver (albeit tarnished) lining to this old cloud?
*I can shave my legs. Or not. My choice.
*I never get asked for ID anymore. Ever. Take that for what it’s worth.
*I can claim forgetfulness. And people believe me.
*When I’m too hot, I can blame it on menopause. And people believe me.
*When I’m a bitch, I can blame it on menopause. And people really believe me.
*I am wiser. I really am. And I’m less judgmental and think that no matter who you are or what you believe in (well, almost anything), I don’t really care as long as you’re a good person and follow the golden rule.
*I can do what I want to do now, with less fear of what others think. I want to cut my day job hours and make half of what I was making so I can follow my dream and work in the publishing business? Go, me.
*I write erotic romance, but others think I write porn? Whatever. They’re just ignorant idiots. (Hey, I said I’m wiser and less judgmental…but I can still have opinions!)
Yes, with age come changes. But most of them are good ones, once I wrap my brain around them (except that damned AARP thing). I like myself better than I ever have, I’ve surrounded myself with people I like and I’m doing what makes me happy.
Happy Birthday to me.