Today I turn 37.
As per my husband, “Your birthday crept up on me this year.”
I realize this is code for, “I currently have no plan for celebrating your birthday and I don’t know what else to say,” but I have to agree that yes Ali, it did creep up this year.
As a matter of fact, the last few birthdays have crept up on me too. As has the arthritis in my right knee, the sun spots on my forehead, and my fondness for saying, “I just don’t get this younger generation.”
But as much as I like to give Ali a hard time, the truth is that I don’t particularly care about my birthday. Mostly because I just don’t like to be the center of attention.
(And for convenience sake, we’ll blame this on my severe case of the middle child syndrome.)
Obviously this is ridiculous, especially seeing as I splash my life all over the Internet. But somehow I fear the awkwardness of people I know staring at me while they sing me Happy Birthday far more than sharing my many shortcomings with complete strangers on Twitter.
It makes no sense. But today, on my birthday? I’m hoping you’ll let it slide.