Yes, I am totally writing a Happy Birthday post to myself. What? Today (well, tomorrow, when this posts, not today, when I’m writing it… like you care) I turn 32.
Holy shit that’s a real grown-up adult age, isn’t it? 31 is just over the hump of 30, and 30 is just barely real adulthood, but 32? Squarely in the realm of “should know better” and “has learned that lesson.” I’d be freaked out if I didn’t (not so) secretly like getting older.
Anyone else feel like that? I’ve spent my whole life wanting to be older, first because I was the child who preferred hanging with the adults, then because I was the under-aged runt in her class, then because I craved the professional respectability I thought would come when I was older, then… well, now, just because I don’t mind getting older.
This despite marrying a younger dude who is constantly freaking out about getting older and muttering phrases like, “feeling my mortality” and “losing my edge” – in his late 20’s.
Still, I really don’t mind getting older.
Last year I made a list of 31 things I wanted to do in my 31st year, and (true to form) never thought about it again. Results:
Take a photography class. (Online counts only if I follow through.)Online, though I didn’t *quite* finish it. Vertigo!
- Attend a girls’ get-together.
Keep in touch with Jen.
- When purchasing, stop settling for less (cheaper) than perfect.
- Dream bigger.
- Renovate the kitchen.
- Refinish the floors.
Fix up our bedroom. (Get a bed!)
- Surprise Joey with a trip.
- Hike somewhere.
- Job shop.
Be spontaneous at least once.
- Finish the guest suite.
- Listen to live music 12 times.
- Eat at home most weekdays.
- Host a bonfire.
- Throw an outdoor party.
Surprise my mom. Surprise my dad.
- Find a religion.
- Paint the garage doors.
- Read every unread book in the house. (The Unread Library)
- Say yes more than no.
- Laugh (out loud, sardonic laughs in my head don’t count) every day.
- Sex every day for a month.
Get on the freaking lift! (snowboarding)
- Ship stuff from my old life away.
- Get a hammock.
- Dance for no reason.
- Plan a perfect vacation with Intrepid Tours.
Pay off every debt. Be okay with my life for a while.
- Do what must be done (more than rage against reality).
- Play through the feelings (rather than around them).
Eh. Not bad. This year? No way. I may not be willing to believe my whole life will come to a stop when we have this kiddo, but I am willing concede that planning things is a great way to go nutso, so this year, we’ll take it all as it comes, the good and the bad.
But let’s get to the real reason I’m posting today: prezzies! If I could have anything for my birthday, I’d want:
a hammock and no mosquitoes (my dreams so I get to specify this)
a beer (Fat Tire, please, icy cold)
my old jeans and a tank top
smaller boobs and thus a bra that fits
a better haircut
the day off of work
a whole cup of hot French Vanilla coffee
a non-commute into the office as an option (ie: not a flight to Seattle)
a clean house
a glass of chilled, floral white wine
a finished fence (because Joey taught Indy to rattle the bell on the front door when he wants to go out and now that’s all the dog ever does – rattle the bell and stare at the humans like, “Hello? Didn’t we just learn this trick? Now you get up and open the door.”)
… but mostly the beer. I swear, I’m debating buying a “post-baby supply kit” that includes a beer or two, bottle of wine, cheese, salami, and eggs and potatoes (to eat a runny egg over a pile of breakfast potatoes). I’ll just include a note in the basket for some set of grandparents to put the beer and wine into the fridge when I go into labor, then pull that and the cheese and salami out of the fridge (grab some chocolate cupcakes on the way, please) and bring to the Hippie Center when they hear the kid is out.
Too direct? 🙂