I hate to whine, but I had the worst birthday ever last year. I’m not even kidding. It was the worst.
My birthday was on a Friday in October. I still get excited about birthdays that fall on a Friday. On Wednesday I wasn’t feeling well and by Thursday I had a pretty good fever. Friday morning I woke up knowing that I had the flu thanks to full on body aches, chills, cough, and intestinal issues. I took it like a champ, though.
Well, not really. Lee came in to wish me well and I just croaked, “Save yourself. Get out of here.” and he scampered away to work. When the kids came in I told them, “It’s not my birthday. I will not accept it. I get a do over next week when I’m better.”
There was much weeping and gnashing of the teeth and watching back to back episodes of 30 Rock while I tried not to pee my pants when I coughed (unsuccessful). I never got my do over because my flu friend stuck around for 2 weeks then invited his friend bronchitis over. Bronchitis was boring so I got a UTI just for fun. The doctor I went to for the UTI said he’d never heard someone describe the pain similar to ‘peeing out a razor blade’. I told him he’d obviously never had a patient with a UTI.
Anyway, all this to say my birthday came and went, we got through winter and our immune systems recovered. Around six weeks ago I realized something, something huge! I’d been telling everyone I was 43 but I’m actually only 42!!!
I guess my time in my sick bed made me feel like Wesley, from The Princess Bride, when he had years sucked away from his life. Except I felt like I had a year added to it.
Seriously, though, can you believe I’m only 42????
I feel like I’ve gained a year. I feel so young and energetic.
Unfortunately at this age you don’t get a lot of opportunities to tell people how old you are. If I’m hanging out with Liam and his friends and they’re exchanging ages I like to throw in a, “Well, I’m 42.” The kids look me over in a disapproving way and move on with their command-establishing-by-age. Most of them can’t even remember what month they’re born in , and if they do happen to know that they don’t really know the order of the months, so then the hierarchy of power becomes based on height.
At my age no one wants to be in charge at the playground. No one.
I cannot believe that I thought I was 43 for so long this year. My kids don’t care, my husband is just irritated that he’s still four years old than me, and my parents don’t keep track of my age much these days. Now that my birthday is just three months away I’m thinking maybe I’ll be 43 for two years in a row. Except, I do like how 44 sounds with its nice alliteration and all.
Oh, gosh. It’s a dilemma. I think it’ll be a game time decision.
In the end, I’m still 40-something and I still need bifocals and my kids still think I’m really old.
But today I’m only 42, and I feel really young.