It's my birthday today. August 18th. I'm only 24, so aging isn't really a factor for me. I had my kids at age 12, so being youthful comes naturally to me. I am so lithe, too. I just sprang out of bed today like I was 7 and proceeded to prance through the day with a sunshiny smile on my face. This getting old stuff is awesome.
All I really want for my birthday is an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen and a $10 gift card to Limited Too.
Too bad in my "dream world" the facade quickly crumbles into little dusty bits that rain on my head like poison ash - ash which keeps erupting out of a toxic volcano. A 39-year-old volcano to be exact. When I splash ice cold water on my face to uncrust the dirt and really look into the mirror - I mean really look - the years tumble onto me like school of piranhas feasting on a cow leg.
Honestly I feel young. What the hell happened? How did the world swing by me so fast? 39. If you elongate the number it almost sounds like "thrrrrottle-me-nnnow." I should just shoot myself in the heart and save myself the trouble of all the endless aging I'm in for. My OB already informed me that I'm making too much progesterone to augment my estrogen, which makes my boobs ache like the dickens every month. Honestly, I think I'm pregnant and run to the bathroom to slit my wrists, and then I remember, oh yeah, my period must be next week. Mostly I remember that when I have the bag of chocolate chips lofted above my face, but the boob alarm is a hard warning to miss.
Then I've got an extra 10 pounds on my extra 10 pounds. "Good luck getting rid of that," my OB cackles like the wicked witch. Then she tells me that one of her patients said, "Getting old is not for the namby, tamby." Namby, tamby? How about it's not for anyone who can take in a breath of air? Or it's not for humans in general? Or it's not even remotely fucking fair? Then my OB causally states: "Well, it's either aging or death." Nice. Have a happy pap smear.
So, Instead of leaping up from my bed in a fit of youthful bliss this morning, I sort of roll myself out clutching at my right hip. I stagger into the bathroom and look in the mirror at my cold sore, which is on it's way out of my lip for a delightful stay, just in time for my husband's 20 year reunion. I grab my Rx of Valtrex, which is used to treat ongoing genital herpes and now everyone at the Target pharmacy thinks I have, and I kiss the bottle. I give a silent hallelujah to science as I swallow down a few of the purple horse pills. It's my first time with the herpes med, and I cross my fingers for a few heartbeats hoping like crazy it will work. There is nothing worse than a giant weeping sore on your face. I would swallow lye if it would cure cold sores.
It's only a matter of time until I'm ingesting Cymbalta and Lipitor on a regular basis anyway.
When I finally make it to my desk, my son immediately tromps in with a deer tick in between his fingers wailing about how he just pulled it out of his knee cap. I examine the wound and the tick, both are angry and gross. I immediately put a call into the pediatrician while opening an email from Northwest Airlines which informs me that 3 out of my 5 family members have been bumped from our spring break flight to Mexico. Which I had booked waaaay in advance because of higher prices at the pump to ensure our non-stop arrival wouldn't cost us the farm.
Happy MoFo Birthday. Is this the kind of birthday you get when you're old? If it is, I never want to have another one again. I think 39 is just fine. I'll stay 39 for infinity. 40 just sounds too old. Like crossing a bridge which you can never get back across. The gatekeeper stands menacingly at the end of the bridge with his iron fists wrapped in arm guards clamped across his ample breast plate barring your re-entry while silently shaking his head back and forth, willing you to move off to steeper and tougher ground away from the bridge, to just get the hell away so you'll stop scaring the other crossers.
You weep for a solid day and then decide to take your lumps and head off into the unknown. After trudging uphill for a million years you plunge into to jungle of thorns and brambles, which poke at you and make you ache and put cold sores all over your face.
I'll stay 39 thank you.
So in the end I figure out the lymes disease, which my son will now be treated for. I figure out the airline tickets, which means we now have to fly Continental and have a lay over which makes our day 5 hours longer. I pray to the Valtrex gods and all looks fairly good. I have a great hamburger with my family and I think the day is finally getting better when my son points to his cheek and says, "I have a weird bump in there." I feel his face to find a huge lump which dodges my fingers like it's playing tag with me. Good grief.
This day needs to end right now.
To all those others out there with a birthday today, and I mean you Robert Redford, Patrick Swayze, Christian Slater, Edward Norton, Roman Polanski, Denise Leary & Malcolm-Jamal Warner, I hope you had a better day than I. I hope your ice cream cake had yellow flowers and pink hearts on it. I hope you got that gift certificate.
My husband is folding the laundry, though, so things are looking up.
Come for some fun!