I had a birthday.
It was cool.
I got presents.
And I ate a cupcake.
I am a huge fan of cupcakes, so that was a real treat for me…
I’m 35 now. Not gonna lie – That sounds hella old to me. Thirty-freakin-five. The other day I read something about how Oprah got started 25 years ago, and I was like “Oh, I remember that” and then I was all, “HolyPooBalls! I remember that!!”
I have actual memories of things that happened a quarter of a century ago.
I officially have two years more earthly life experience than Jesus. Granted, I think He was a faster learner than me. But still, that’s crazy.
So yesterday, while I was whipping up some cream cheese frosting for the cupcakes, I started planning a spectacular mid-life crisis. It’s just one of those things that, if you’re gonna do it, you should make it a real doozie. Everyone knows that the absolute best way to prepare yourself for a midlife crisis is to start thinking about all the stuff in your life that you have to be really, super bitter about.
I started with my marriage. I said to myself “My marriage sucks! El Chupacabra can be such a dick, sometimes. He’s always telling me what to do. ‘Write a book! Write a book! You should really write a book!’ all the freaking time, like he knows what I should be doing with myself. He’s impatient. He doesn’t understand me. We don’t even like the same things. And? He leaves ‘beard hair’ all over the place. I shouldn’t have to deal with this crap anymore.”
Once I was sufficiently pissed about my marriage, I moved on to ponder exactly how disappointed I am with my ungrateful and disrespectful children. “Man, those kids bug me, sometimes. When they aren’t being the funniest, coolest, most adaptable people on the planet, they’re driving me plain bonkers. I can hardly stand to be around them. I need a break, is what I need.”
And this tiny house! And these dirty dogs! And the piles of laundry! And, of course, the sink is full of dishes, again! And these damned cupcakes are headed straight to my ass!
Oh poor me. Poor, poor me, with all this stuff to take care of, and a blog to write. Poor me, married to this imperfect but grace-filled guy. Poor me, the mother of these three healthy kids with giant appetites, always wanting me to feed them.
Poor me. 35 years old and nothing to show for it but a nuclear family, a calling to full-time ministry, and this stupid blog.
Then I ate a cinnamon spice cupcake with cream cheese frosting and I was like, “Screw that. Poor anyone who has ever been a complete and total, self-centered a-hole and claimed it as a midlife crisis!”
I can spin it however I want, but the reality is that I am abundantly, ridiculously, outrageously Blessed.
And 35 is the new 28, or something. So there’s that.
Happy Birthday, me.
This reminds me, I've been meaning to ask: How old are you? And do you pee sitting down or standing up?...ya know...demographically speaking.