I’ve never understood the grown-up aversion to birthdays, other than the fact that you indeed get OLDER with each one.
I friggin’ LOVE my birthday. Always have. An entire day that is designated for ME, my awesomeness, and the very fact that I was brought into this world? Yes, please.
I am 40.
You know those adults who “hate” their birthdays and all the attention? I call bullsh*t. I don’t even bother pretending I don’t like the attention – just ask ANYONE WHO HAS EVER KNOWN ME. Bring it on. I will concede that I detest the restaurant-birthday-sing-along, mostly because I used to wait tables and I know how annoying it is to sing Happy Birthday, or some "clever" version thereof, to some jackass in a sombrero. Now, if you want to hand me the mike and hand me a playlist of obscure 80’s country songs, I’m yer gal.
I think this is going to be the year I stop trying to be thinner than I am. I figure if I live to be 80 years old, I will have spent half my life trying to fit into single-digit sized jeans.
F*ck it. I’m fat, people. I am curvy, I have a beer gut (that I’ve worked really hard for, thank you,) I have stretch marks from bearing three healthy boys (who now drive me bat-sh*t crazy,) I have boobs that enter a room 15 minutes before the rest of me does, and I have two chins.
I like pizza and beer and donuts. They taste good.
You know what? I’m tired. My kids love me; they love snuggling up to me on the couch because I’m “soft.” Hubby likes to watch tv with his head in my lap because it’s comfy. I try to exercise periodically and eat my veggies and drink plenty of water, but it’s been FORTY years . . . I just don’t think I’m meant to be any different than what I am.
So there ya have it. You may have surmised (because of the drunk-sailor vocabulary) that I’ve had a couple of these:
It’s my birthday, yo. Cheers!