Forty-something

I love celebrating my birthday but I hate getting old. Here I am, not even forty-five and already I can't keep track of how old I am. As if that weren't bad enough, I'm starting to act like an old fart; grumpy and cynical and trying to get more mileage out of a dollar. I even wear socks to bed.

Tomorrow, I turn forty-four and as it approaches I contemplate which way to look - the future or the past? At this point it stretches equally in both directions. I suppose this is the time to go through a mid-life crisis but honestly, my youth was spent working hard, paying off debt and drinking uncontrollably. It was a great deal of fun but once was enough.

In general, birthday posts are supposed to be inspirational - sharing the reiteration of how life should be embraced and becoming a better person, but who am I kidding? My mother still tells me I need to grow up and as I fight with my five-year-old for the last piece of gum, I see her point.

If I took her example, at my age she was partying every weekend adorned with fat gold jewelry and fitting into size one jeans. Meanwhile, her misfit teenage daughters stayed at home and listened to records. That's right...I mean vinyl albums. Talk about ancient.

So yeah, I'm feeling old. Too old to be changing careers, diapers and learning new knock-knock jokes but that's where I am. And if another young person subjects me to their inexperienced optimism with an "you're never too old to have fun" crap, I swear I'm going to puke on them.

I will have a happy birthday, however. How could I not with two little demons wanting to blow out my birthday candles? Afterward, I'm going to put my slice of cake in the blender and puree it so it won't ruin my dentures.