Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 38.
Two things haunted me about this particular birthday:
1. When I was a wee lass, my dad turned 38. And I made up my own version of “Happy Birthday:”
I thought I was soooooo funny. But really? I was heartless. Dad, I’m so, so sorry! I was wrong! I was so, so wrong! Please, tell me I was wrong. Please.
2. My husband never remembers how old he is. He will ask me how old he is, like I am The Keeper of Ages. The scary thing is that evidently, I, too, consistently forget his age – I always have to do math when he asks.
I don’t understand how My Guy isn’t bothered by dirty dishes on the kitchen counter (dishes! on the counter! the world could end!). However, this age business is an area where I need to adopt his zen attitude. What if we all forgot how old we are? How would we act?
I’d probably adopt an all-chocolate-cake diet. I’d dye pink streaks in my hair and sing along to Muzak in the grocery store. I would also throw the occasional impressive tantrum.
What would you do, my ageless friends?