Nah, I’m not crying. Promise. I love my birthday. I love fall. I love that I’m healthy and feel very blessed. Even when I’m starting to think I’m officially old.
My dh said the other day, “How old are you going to be? 29?” I should have slugged him. I’m not one to hide my age. Well, can’t. There it is. Right on my face and well, we won’t mention other body parts. So I won’t be 99 year old and saying I’m 29. Okay. But folks only say you’re the perpetual 29 when they KNOW you’re old.
Not to mention the one gift I wanted this year is an iPod. What’s up with that? Do I think I’m 19? My daughter is actually more excited about my iPod than I am. I’m staring at it trying to figure out how to use it and I am trembling that I’m going to have to read the dreaded directions.
Then there’s the card thing. Now, you just have to know this about me. I’m not really the sentimental type. Okay, I am in some ways. But I don’t save cards. I don’t save anything. I’m a no clutter kind of gal, which is the kind of statement that if you saw my office at this moment would make you fall down laughing. But I digress. Every card I’ve received so far this year makes me think, “Oh, how sweet. Maybe I should keep this.” Yikes! I’ve turned into my mother…and my grandmother!
Now my grandmother was the type who said she was 29…until she turned 80. Then she felt as if she deserved an award for living so long so she wasn’t embarrassed to say her age at that point. Although, since she has passed onto her great reward we have discovered records that may indicate she was actually a year older than even she admitted. Would our dear, sweet grandmother lie? Perpetuate a lie? I mean, this woman lived in a time where she didn’t have a birth certificate, so when she was around my age (come to think of it) she had to go to the courthouse with her older sister who swore under oath that my grandmother was born on a certain date. Possibly a year later than her actual birth because we have census records showing an 11 month old baby girl (unnamed) was living in her family’s residence the month before my grandmother was supposedly born. Hmmmm.
Well, if you’ve made it thus far through the family saga and are still hanging out with me on my birthday, tell me how old you think I should say I am? The real deal? Or should I fake it?