It's just a number

Today is my birthday. It's not one of the "big" birthdays. It doesn't even matter much (and hasn't since I had kids and their lives have trumped mine in every measurable way possible). But somehow, I still believe today should be all about me. And my friends came through, taking me to lunch and giving me gifts and a cake, the leftovers of which will not help my healthy eating intentions as will-power was not one of my birthday gifts. I have saved all of the cards that have come in the last week or so so that I can open them today, on my day of days. Because I am weird like that, only wanting to open things on the *actual* day. So do you think my family could wait for today to give me my presents? Nope. D. came out of our bedroom hiding my gifts behind his back (wrapping is not an option for him). The first thing was a book called Triathlons for Women. I sort of suspect that this is a get off your lazy arse and exercise some woman, but when I asked him if that was the case, he denied it fiercely. The second was the latest Harry Potter movie. And that was the reason why it couldn't wait for today. Because you see, the little darlings wanted to watch it last night and it was terribly inconvenient for me to have a weekday birthday, don'tcha know. But whatever, because it's just another day because like I said, it's not a "big" one this year. That's next year.

Actually, D. got an e-mail from a club he belongs to (well, I guess *we* belong to it but it's more a business thing) which offered to help walk him through organizing a big private party since they noticed that I was turning 40 this year. After he laughed his butt off at this (he's younger than I am), he responded to them that he appreciated the offer but since I was not indeed turning forty this year, he would pass. Whew! Nasty divorce averted! And honestly, I don't know how old I am turning this year since my mother, who is rather particular about age, likes to tell me how old I am allowed to be each year. It's really sort of embarrassing to say that I'm in my 20's when I have a child about to become a teenager. So I'm hoping I can age up into my 30's and mom can just go to her second favorite method of fooling people on the topic of her own age: telling everyone that my sister and I are my father's by his first marriage, neglecting to mention that she is his first wife.

Does age bug you? I'd say my mother inherited it but it was actually my paternal grandmother who refused to tell anyone her age. If you were rude enough to ask while she was alive, she'd tell you it was "None of your damn business." She even told that to the poor harassed guy investigating my dad so dad could get government clearance for one of his jobs. Dad left Nan's birth year empty on the voluminous forms he had to fill out because he truly didn't know. So when the omission was pointed out to him, he demurred to the FBI. And she still didn't give up her age, even when she was told that his clearance and therefore his job could depend on it. She felt so strongly about it that nothing short of serious torture would have prised it from her, and maybe not even that. Let's just say that at her funeral, I was asked more than once just how old my Nan had been. All the grandchildren told people they'd have to go back to the cemetery once her stone was in place. We may be squirrely about age, but we're remarkably loyal to foibles. I truly didn't know that day (I do now and it still feels like I know a big, special secret) but really, why is it such a big deal? The number on the scale now...

I'm officially 39 today according to my birth certificate (I haven't heard from mom yet to see what my adjusted age is) and while I don't feel 39, I don't really care if you mention the number. Just don't age me prematurely like D.'s rotten club did. My hair might have been old for a long time, as evidenced by the hairdresser recently giving me a sample of that purple shampoo to use, but the rest of me feels like 39 isn't such a bad age to be.