Tag Archives: getting old

Birthdays are Weird

My birthday is in August, but don’t worry, I’m not going to write a post about everything I’ve learned or done in the past year. This is because a) I don’t remember what I did 10 minutes ago b) I write about enough crap on here c) I forgot the third reason.

See? I think I just proved my first point.

Anyway, even though I like celebrating everyone else’s birthday, I don’t like my birthday. It’s not because I hate getting older as much as I just don’t really like the hype or expectations.

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But when you overthink about it, birthdays are weird. People celebrate you for doing nothing more than pushing your way out of your mom’s lady parts after causing her heartburn and morning sickness for nine months.

That’s it.

You took a trip down the ol’ birth canal and voila! Every year from that point on, instead of honoring the woman whose loins you were ripped from, people buy you gifts and stand around baked goods covered in flames and sing to you awkwardly off key.

But with that said, my mom has always been awesome about making me feel special on my birthday.

Because it fell in the summer, my birthday served as an excuse to throw many large parties with copious amounts of friends, my large family and food. The crowds and hoopla gradually stopped as everyone grew up and away—or got tired of me—but the bits and pieces of birthdays gone by will always remain in my mind.

However, there were a few that were a little less than stellar.

Strike One

There was a Fiesta themed party complete with stereotypical sombreros and music, Mexican food and a piñata. While a piñata was good in theory, that theory flew out the window right about the time the piñata stick accidentally flew through the air and directly towards an inattentive neighbor lady.

Smarties and plastic jewelry did not fall out of the cut on her head. Our disappointment was profound.

Strike Two

Nothing fell out of the cut on my head a few years later when my presents were hid throughout our large backyard and I was blindfolded and forced to hunt for them on my hands and knees. A Frisbee was thrown from a great distance and managed to hit me square in the head. Being blindfolded and covered in grass burns, this was literally a blow to what dignity I had left.

We had cake. I forgave.

Strike Three

Then there was a year that the stars aligned and the Tigers were playing the California Angels at home on my birthday. I was convinced I was going to marry their first baseman—JT Snow. This was obviously a sign of our destined eternal bliss.

We drove the three hours to the game, where after a couple innings he came up to bat and hit a foul ball directly towards my dad. A great ending to this story would be that he made an effort, caught the ball and concluded the perfect birthday of his 10-year-old daughter.

Didn’t happen. We had cake. I had resentment.

But despite the few (literal) hits and misses, I have to say that I’ve had it pretty good. I don’t expect a marriage proposal or physical and emotional scarring this year, but I do expect applause when I enter the room and a tiara to wear.

In other words, treat it just like any other day.

What have been some of your birthday hits and misses?

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Keep It Down, Please

If the saying, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” is true, that would mean I am approximately 103 years old and counting.

Not only do I physically feel old and barely recognize myself in the mirror any more, but I also go to bed by 10, enjoy prunes, gripe about technology and the clothes teenagers wear, forget what I said five minutes ago and often put “the” in front of things that don’t require it—such as, “The Target” or “The Twitter.”

I would like to think I’m simply an old soul. Yes, let’s go with that.

But one more thing that I’ve noticed lately is that I can’t stand loud things, which inevitably means I’m going to start standing on my sidewalk and yelling (ironically) at cars driving by to turn down that garbage on their radio or asking people to use their indoor voices when speaking into my good ear.

This new thing has been silently sneaking up on me but I’m noticing it more and more.

It’s like everyone has ramped up the volume when they speak, most likely because they have their head bent over their phone or forget what it’s like to actually interact with another human when not connected via Internet.

However, it’s not just vocal volume that is grating on my nerves. It’s the sound of doors shutting a little too hard, staplers smashing down on papers and lord help me—people typing on their keyboards like they’re playing Whac-A-Mole with their fingers and the keys.

And the sound of people slurping up their drinks or eating corn on the cob? I’ll admit it sparks feelings of rage comparable to when I hear someone TYPING REALLY LOUD ON THEIR KEYBOARD.

Perhaps I’m just overstimulated with all the noise we’re faced with every day, but most likely I’m just oversensitive and undermedicated.

All of this is to say that at 30, I still have a hard time believing that the ’90s were 20 years ago and that 2012 is a “thing.” When I hear that some of my favorite athletes were born after the glorious year of 1981 when I graced this planet with my presence, a tiny little tear drips down my wrinkly face. 

OK. In my old age I may be prone to slight hyperbole, as even in my advanced state I remembered enough about the ’80s to share some of my memories over at funnynotslutty.com. If you’re so inclined and want to see a picture of me grabbing my boobs, head on over that way.

Just please gently shut the door when you go…

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