It was a cold and stormy Saturday night exactly exactly 43 years ago. Ok, no it wasn’t. It was a cold and stormy Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. Sort of. It was cold, but not stormy. It was a cold and sunny Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. Actually, I’m not sure if it was sunny. It may have been overcast, but not stormy. I don’t really know for sure because, even though I was there, I was only a few minutes old.
While this isn't my baby picture, the baby bears a striking resemblance to me as a baby. Somebody really should have let me know it was all downhill from there.
So let’s go with what I do know. It was a cold Saturday morning exactly 43 years ago. My father pulled up to the hospital shortly before 8 am. My mother was whisked off to the super-secret-no-husbands-allowed-in-case-they-see-stuff-that-they-shouldn’t-see delivery room. My father was given the mandatory 1,000-page admittance-slash-this-will-help-you-ignore-the-blood-curdling-screams form.
On the upside, it's not like my mom could use the old "I was in labour for 3 and a half months and nearly died because of you!" spiel.
Exactly 24-minutes and 3 questions into the form, a nurse walked up to my father and congratulated him on his bouncing baby girl. He, of course, let her know that he and his wife had only just arrived so the nurse was obviously mistaking him for some other father. The nurse laughed and told him there was no mistake. He had a baby girl.
Yes, I was born in 24 minutes. And no, superhero-like child-birthing powers are not hereditary. Dammit.
And, yes. Today is my birthday.
It's kinda of sad when your family brings out the fire extinguisher at the same time as your birthday cake.
I’m cool with getting older. Especially since most people, actually all people, tell me I look easily 10 years younger. And act 30 years younger. Whatever that means.
So, no, I don’t mind getting older. I’m not one of those women who feels the overwhelming need to fight the aging process with every single fibre of my sagging, thickening, drooping, wrinkling, tired being. Not at all.
I’m not one of those women who walks past perky 20-somethings and spitefully thinks of all the ways they will be ruined by time and pregnancies. The thought that the rose tattoo on Miss Perky’s boob will be long-stemmed before she can say “What do you mean no mini-skirts after 30?!” has NEVER crossed my mind. Ever.
Yeah, those thorns are a real bitch.
I’ve certainly never considered getting work done. When men go through a mid-life crisis, they get fancy sports cars and 22-year old girlfriends secretaries. When women go through a mid-life crisis, they have breast implant surgery and facelifts so they can look like 22-year old girlfriends secretaries.
Not me, though. Without going into too many Details, the “girls” are more than aDequate. And since I don’t look my age, my face doesn’t need lifting. And although my tummy might appreciate a little tucking, I’m of the belief that my waistline should be reduced the good, old-fashioned way – by throwing up after every meal.
So I’m totally okay with getting old. Oh, fine. I’m mostly okay with getting old. I can hear you scoffing, you know. Alright. I’m sort of okay with getting old. Shut. Up.
Look, I’m not checking out plastic surgery prices or anything, okay?
But if you and 5,000 of your friends wanted to send me a dollar each for my birthday, I’m sure my tummy and I could find something to do with it.
Until then, I’m just going to drink. A lot.
Happy birthday to me Happy birthday to me I look like a middle-aged frumpy tired drunk And I drink like one too.
