If you ask me, birthdays are bummers unless you are age six or under
and don't yet understand that cake and ice cream create fat
cells in your body that will haunt you later on, and all that new stuff will amuse you
for a very short time and then it's back to normal only you're getting less
adorable every day.Yesterday was my birthday and I made it through relatively unscathed. I say relatively because the day started with a freak accident whereby I got my wrist slammed between the stainless steel legs of a folding chair -- don't ask -- causing me severe pain and bruising (and screaming and sobbing), and so now I begin my 71st year on Earth with no left hand to speak of. But after that it was smooth sailing. I did not receive even one automated "Happy Birthday" on Facebook, which is a personal best. I did get some flowers, dinner out with my husband and son, several greeting cards that came in the real mail, and even an anonymous gift of a potted plant left at my front door. (So far it has not exploded.)
So here I am today: No longer just 70, which was bad enough, now I am "in my 70s," which sounds a heck of a lot worse and actually is a lot worse in the long run, and by the way I can forget going on any of those anymore. Still, if we just met you might think I'm old, but if you already know me, you get that in my heart I'm still only in my 60s.
No comments:
Post a Comment