Liar, Liar, Your Birthday Cake’s on Fire

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.

That good.

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.

Everything.

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.

Middle aged…

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.