Nope, not depressed or anti-birthday, just not exactly whoo-hoo-and-a-cake-a-flame-with-candles. It's not like me. I know this. But it feels as though it ought to be honored as it is just the same.
46 is not a very glamorous year. We haven't had a 46th president of the United States yet and the only famous person I can think of who died at this age was John F. Kennedy (in keeping with the presidential theme.) My grandparents were grandparents by the time they were my age and, as my daughter, Lucy, pointed out--this is the year when she is exactly half my age and the same age I was when I gave birth to her. It all seems more of a riddle than a celebration.
Now, don't get me wrong, I still love birthdays and I'm thrilled to be able to claim another year--it all seriously beats the alternative. I'm savoring the angel food cake Teri made me and appreciating all the cards and well-wishes; I'm soluting my famous birthday buddies (Chris Rock and Ashton Kutcher) and wondering if anyone made them blueberry muffins and angel food cake. I'll march myself off to work and tell everyone that today is my birthday--surely my young coworkers will think 1967 sounds like a hundred years ago; I'll call my mother and wish her a happy labor day--I'll do the deal, but it just might not be all glitter, rainbows and balloons this year. Happy Birthday to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment