This year was just as disappointing as the last and the one prior and the one before that. Why? Let’s just say that the magic for birthdays is long gone. There is no mystery, no buildup. You can always tell when people are planning your birthday and you’ll catch them trying to be inconspicuous. Carlos tried. Sara tried. It just isn’t the same as when you’re little and you’re in school anticipating the moment when you can annihilate the cake and get to the wonderful presents. Now, I’m 32. Yeah, the BIG three-two. I’ve performed the ritual thirty-two times. Ugh. Just thinking about it makes me feel old. It doesn’t help that I have this constant gnawing in the pit of my stomach that I used to know what was “cool”. I used to be able to name bands and bob my head and belt out songs at the tops of my lungs. I used to know lyrics by heart, without sounding or looking completely corny. I hate thinking these random thoughts, talking my way out of eating a second-helping! I hate it when I do my year in review and feel as if I’ve accomplished ‘nothing special’ when I used to have something to do each and every weekend and my calendar was always full. Maybe I’m missing out on something. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I dunno.
What I do know for sure, Oprah:
- I’m a year older.
- There’s a half-eaten cake in my fridge.
- The milk and eggs (in the mix from the cake) will go to my hips.
- There is no Santa Claus.
- I can’t remember (which figures since they say that memory’s the first thing to go).