It's my birthday, y'all. Thirty-three. Is it okay to say that I feel seriously, majorly old? I mean...I'm not going to offend anyone who's even older, am I? (Fogies, all of you!) It just feels...weird and awkward and WRONG. Or maybe it's just that I feel weird and awkward and wrong, like who is this person in this body with this husband and practically two entire children and this house and this job and this grown-up life, which finally includes a mostly organized craft room? Certainly not me. (I HAVE A CRAFT ROOM, YOU GUYS. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?)
"Oh, I felt so much more comfortable with myself in my thirties," they say. "Phooey," I say. The whole thing feels like an elaborate trick. Where are the hidden cameras?
(Simon points out that this is my Jesus Year and that if I'm ever going to die for a cause, now would be the time to do it. Instead I've decided to have enchiladas for lunch and dinner today and then just wait and see how the next 365 days unfold.)
And yet (of course) it's hard to obsess about my own weirdness--or rather, the weirdness of being me--when I'm surrounded by such wonderful and generous things and people. Wombat is delighted that I am thirty-three at the same time he is three and a third, and Simon surprised me this morning with strawberry and pancakes for breakfast and a book (because Wombat asserted that I would like a book much more than a CD, and he was right), and then a bouquet of flowers came from Nintendo (and, I suspect, Brand about Town; thank you!), and then there were cards in the mail and @s on Twitter and messages on mostly-useless-for-everything-else Facebook, and DAMN, curled at the edges as I am, I just feel so lucky.
We've been busy and I have a lot to say, but the past week or so has been one long stutter in this space as I've grappled with how to capture what I hesitate to call "blessings" even though I can't think of a better word for all this bounty. Sure, I wake up with excruciating rib pain, spend most days frantically working to keep us out of medieval debtor's prison, and then go to sleep with the world's rowdiest fetus practicing what can only be in-utero jumping jacks until he has exhausted himself into a peaceful, thumbsucking slumber. It's full-on spring here, and the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming and the veggie garden is in, and I just want to hug everything. See? Weird.
But oh, thirty-three, you are going to be fun, I can tell.Previous Next