So here we are.
Today, I am officially middle-aged. I hate it. Of course, I also hate that I hate it, because that just makes me seem like a great big cliché. Thank God I don’t drink much, because the thought of adding a giant glass of wine to the picture is just too damned stereotypical to bear.
There are pluses, of course. I can justify going to a schmancy restaurant tonight. And I’m that much closer to the age where I can do or say anything I want just because I haven’t died yet.
People ask what I want for my birthday, but I can’t think of any stores that carry reversal of gravity or a sensible Congress.
I truly don’t remember all 40 of my birthday wishes, but if I did, I bet they would go something like this:
At birth: I wish I knew what was going on here.
At 1: I wish I could talk in complete sentences.
At 2: I wish I had all my teeth.
At 3: I wish I could live in the TV with all the happy people.
At 4: I wish I could go to Disneyland.
At 5: I wish I could eat ice cream every day.
At 6: I wish I could fly.
At 7: I wish that math wasn’t stupid.
At 8: I wish I could get my ears pierced.
At 9: I wish Santa Claus was real.
At 10: I wish I was old enough to be taken seriously.
At 13: I wish I could get that boy to like me.
At 15: I wish I was old enough to drive.
At 18: I wish I was old enough to drink.
At 20: I wish I could figure out what I want to do with my life.
At 22: I wish I was old enough to rent a car.
At 25: I wish I could repay my student loans.
At 30: I wish I was 25.
At 35: I wish I was 30.
At 40: I wish I could eat ice cream every day.
Crap. Now it won’t come true.
Yes indeed. Welcome to me.