Showing posts from August, 2016
In a couple of weeks, I’ll be in a total depression because it will be my birthday.  The thing is, birthdays themselves aren’t so bad–presents, cake. I can get into that.  And the symbolism of the birthday–the passage of time, wisdom, experience–none of that’s so bad, either.  I can deal with it all, even embrace it.  But here’s the thing, and it’s the big ugly.  I don’t like the numbers.  People attach significance to them, tease you that you’re old when you’re 30, tell you you’re climbing up that hill when you’re 40, let you know you’re over the hill when you’re 50, remind you how you’re slipping down the backside of that hill when you’re 60.

I remember some of these milestones with my parents.  Remember teasing them mercilessly when they were 40, 50, 60, 70.  And what goes around comes around.  My kids, who are as bratty to me as I was to my parents, are merciless, too.  But the funny thing is, when my 33 year-old had her birthday a few months ago, I actually heard her…