I. am. 40!

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.  

FORTY.  

Four zero.  

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YfvBbxE1vU

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!