43

You know how some birthday years are just BLAH? Take, for instance, 14. The previous year, when you turned 13, THAT was a biggee: you became a teenager, had a big party at the skating rink with all 500 of your BESTEST friends, and instantly became, as your Mom put it* "all grown up." What's left for 14???

So, as your 14th birthday creeps closer**, you start to hear comments like "Gee, Marge***, that sure was an EXPENSIVE party we threw last year!" or "I hear COOL teenagers all around America are having parties at home with their Dads as DJs!"****. That's when you know it's a "no-count" birthday.

That's pretty much what I'm feeling about 43. I'm not hatin' on this birthday or anything, it's just a "no-count"-er. Here are a few reasons why:

1. If Mike planned a big party, I'd be completely exhausted by it. I still love the idea of a few dozen people getting together, but, these days, I'd have to take a nap before I even THOUGHT about who to invite.

2. Cake. Glorious cake. Plus, leftover cake. I dream about good cake, but my thighs really can't handle the thought. They'd burst out in cottage cheese patterns for the next twenty years after all that sugar. Really, I'm better off with one of those cute, faddish, demi-desserts at a chain restaurant. You know them--the ones in the shot-glasses? For me, they are a generous bite. And only cause a slight thigh dimple.

3. I truly don't have any good gift ideas. IS THAT MESSED UP OR WHAT? I thought you had to be in your Polident years to not have a behemoth list hidden in a side pocket of your purse. But, I'm completely tapped. My friend asked me for ideas and I came up with one: a hammock.***** Yeah, I know, LAME. I'm 43, what can I say?

4. For the next 9 months and 8 days, I will officially be 4 years older than Mike again. As in, "Hey, Jill!" (ha, ha) "Do you know what grade I was in when you were a SENIOR in High School?" Torture, I tell you, torture.

Now, on Sunday, I'm going to violate every one of these four reasons for not getting excited, because that's what I do on my birthday (or anybody else's, for that matter.) I'm going to remind Mike that he was a lowly 8th grader when I was a Senior and that, darn, is he lucky that I'm enough of a COUGAR to prowl after him. I'm going to eat cake. LOTS of it.****** And, then, hopefully, I'm going to take a nap in my new hammock, and dream of what adventures we'll go on when I turn 44, after the exhausting party with 500 of my BESTEST friends.

Happy Birthday, me!!!



*With a tear in her eye.

**The date, stealthy circled on the family calendar, in red Sharpie. By YOU.

***Nobody I know has a Mom named Marge--save Bart Simpson--so I figured this was an
ultra-safe moniker.

****Hysterically funny examples for illustration only. Do not resemble comments made by my parents, Mike's parents, or any of our friend's parents. EVER.

*****To nap in whilst I produce a list for next year's non-party. 44--blah.

******Followed by gallons of water and nothing but fish for food, the proper sacrifice to quell angry, spongy thighs.