I lied to the health department about my age.
Of course, it wasn’t intentional. I didn’t mean to lie. It’s just that I’m so old I must be getting senile, because I can’t seem to remember where I am in this decade of my life.
If I was intentionally being creative with my age, I definitely would’ve said twenty-nine or thirty, but thirty-eight slipped from my lips. As soon as the number escaped, it didn’t sound right. I kept the conversation going, but my brain was calculating, and you all know how good I am at math.
It seems a lot of women became ill after the conference I recently attended and the health department was calling to find out what I ate.
Food tastes better when someone else is cooking, so I ate it, cheesecake and all. Thankfully I didn’t get sick, but I don’t think it was about the food anyway. It was a real-life Outbreak.
So here’s the deal. I’m really thirty-nine. That’s big news. I mean, it’s the last year of my thirties. I think forty is probably the onset of all things demential.
Good grief! When did that happen?
Shouldn’t I be celebrating the last of my lingering youth, the fact that I still have all my teeth, and I can touch my toes?
When this year is complete, it needs a marker of sorts, something to look back on and remember. I need to build an altar, so all those who come after me will see and know God got me all the way to forty. It will give all the twenty-somethings hope (or make them jump off a bridge, but whatever).
It’s like I’m becoming my mother. (Only she’s
really old now not so old. Wish her a Happy Birthday please, because it was yesterday.)
I remember when my mother turned 40. I helped plan her party. All the family came to my grandparents and we decorated with tombstones. Black was the color of choice and I remember thinking boy is my mom old.
It’s different now that I’m about to wear forty with pride. I’m sure my kids will look at the number just like I did. They’ll think I probably have another four or five years left before I trade in my curling iron for a cane.
Youth has a way of tricking the mind out of its good sense.
The truth is I’m really not sad to see this last year of my thirties pass. I mean, it’s too quick. Time marches to a fast beat and I wish it would slow down, but I’m good with getting older. Each new year is a blessing some don’t get.
I want to celebrate each day of thirty-nine and then face forty with all the bravery of so many woman before me.
We celebrate too little, but that’s another topic for another day.
Today I will wear thirty-nine with pride. I won’t even lie about my age, at least I won’t on purpose…unless of course you talk to my kids, because then I’m twenty-nine. No doubt about it!
As for my mom, I have no clue what age she’s wearing these days. I think it changes with her mood.
Happy Birthday Mom. Love you.