I turned 39 over the weekend. Everyone keeps asking me if I had a good birthday and I tell them I did and give them a little smile to reinforce the fact that I had a perfectly pleasant birthday.
But in all honesty...I'm not at all thrilled about being a year older. Is anyone REALLY happy about getting older, except for kids. They don't count. They think birthdays are like another version of Christmas-even better because they don't have to worry about if Santa's watching. They can act like complete turds for the day because it's their special day and it only comes around once a year, blah, blah, blah...
I mean what do we have to look forward to?
I have more gray hair. Yay.
With each passing summer, my shorts get longer and longer. Yay.
The fat around my belly has now converged with my back fat and they've made an eternity band of fat now. Yay.
Although my face looks my age, I'm so happy to have a chin that still thinks I'm in puberty as it breaks out every other week with pimples the size of dimes. Yay.
So this past weekend, we went up to my parent's house to meet up with my little brother and his family, my aunt and uncle from Canada, and my cousin, his wife and baby girl who came down from Chicago. It was a really nice visit, I'll admit. My cousin has a baby girl who's almost one.
They were busy chasing her around and trying to get her to take a nap. I could feel their stress of having to deal with a one year old because I remember oh too vividly my kids being that age and having to go through the same thing with each of them.
Then it hit me. There is something good about being a year older.
My children are a year older and more importantly they are no longer one! Yay!
Charlie's two but at least he ain't ONE.
Yay for Spanx and Proactiv!