Now, isn’t that sort of ridiculous?
Anyway, tomorrow is my birthday and I’m not particularly excited about it. Turning 35 doesn’t make me old, but it sure does serve as a blaring reminder that I’m not getting any younger. The term ‘mid-thirties’ kind of makes me want to barf.
How did this happen? How is it possible that I’m 35? Really? HOW?
I feel younger; even though my insides probably look like those of a sixty year old thanks to the years of chemical laden carbonated beverages I’ve imbibed. I have crows feet. And knees that sound like crumbling potato chips when I climb the stairs. I use anti wrinkle cream. But in my mind I’m still 23.
Last year I had a pretty unremarkable birthday. I was sick with some sort of sinusy plague and was more focused on getting well for the 18 miler marathon training run Craig and I had planned for that Friday. Also, I baked a tragic birthday cake that still haunts me a year later. I had a serious case of the birthday cake blues. It was also Caroline’s school’s PTA Spirit Night at The Silver Diner, but I was sick and in no mood to be social, so Craig and Caroline picked up take out. I remember eating a tomato and mozzarella pesto sandwich and a salad. On my bedroom floor. On my birthday. Then I ate a piece of tragic birthday cake. And inside I probably died a little bit.
I can handle a lot, but terrible birthday cake is asking a little too much of me.
You know, that whole eating my birthday dinner on my bedroom floor scenario, in all of its unspecial, unremarkable glory, kind of reminds me of the time Craig and I went to Winn Dixie and bought tater tots after our ‘wedding.’
We Smiths are nothing but classy.
Thankfully I’m not sick this year, but once again, the school’s PTA spirit night at The Silver Diner falls on my birthday. This year we’re going to the actual restaurant and NOT eating our dinner on my bedroom floor.
Oh, and I’m buying a piece of cake.
After this weekend’s baking failures, I’m not sure my fragile (OLD!) state can handle a birthday cake disaster, too.