October 26, 2009 by Marj Hatzell
I spend the better part of the year ignoring my impending birthday. I mean it, I forget about it, try not to let others know when it is, avoid the phone that day, hide the cards from the mail. Birthdays are just not that important to me. If you are only as old as you feel, I’m gonna be twenty-five forever. Right?
Here’s the funniest part.
I spent the better part of the weekend tending to sick kids. A few folks knew what was coming and we kidded about it a bit. I kept saying, “Yeah. I’m definitely not 38. I’m TWENTY-EIGHT! SO PBLTT!!!” And we joked and laughed and that was that.
Then I was sitting there last night, watching EMHE with my sick boy (who, three days later, still has a temp of 103. Which is better than the 103.9 it had been but certainly worse than the 102.7 it had been for part of the weekend) and it hit me. I’m not turning 38.
I’m turning 37.
Which is the problem with not celebrating your birthday and avoiding it at all costs.
You don’t know when it is. And you certainly don’t know how freaking old you are.
Which is precisely why I ignore them. That way, I go by the old-as-you-feel thing and I FEEL FREAKING GREAT!
Take that, Father Time.