October 21, 2011
Birthdays always beget this monumental introspection into my life. I create these thoughts of grander, like how this is the year that I’m going to start waxing my upper lip, or now that I’m older it’s time to start stretching properly before a work out, or this year I’m going to stop spending money on shoes and start a boat fund because old people need boats. But usually I just get really down on myself because I think, geez, how is it that I’m another year older but still a punk ass bitch? I thought I had resolved to change that on my last birthday. Or I’ll think, I’m so lazy, people that have way more kids than me have a clean house and time to blog about their recent trip to the dentist, meanwhile I haven’t been to the dentist in way too long and I swear I have 3 cavities because I’m addicted to watching Rachel Zoe on Bravo which leads me to eating handfuls of candy corn because I get sad that I can’t afford a Chanel tweed jacket, plus I don’t like to brush for the full 2 minutes because it makes my teeth hurt, and people who have hurty teeth probably have mouth cancer, and it’s not like I can just stop eating these sweet nuggets of non-corn because I’m addicted, yo, and this is my crack, and I’m like that smoker that just gets their throat removed but still smokes out of the hole in their neck. Just send your flowers to me at the hospital, I don’t know what the room number is, but just ask the nurse to put them in the room with the crazy lady who throws candy corns into her face hole.
But this year it was different.
No thoughtful reflection on how I’m going to make this year better than the last.
I’m 31 now. It’s serious. I’m now a full-fledged adult. I have kids and wrinkles and a sensible car, and I buy groceries like a mo-fo.
10 years ago I used to wander the isles awkwardly with my cart, I was like a baby calf just learning to walk. I’d stare up at the tall shelves, intimidated by words like red wine vinegar or orecchiette. I wouldn’t know the difference between All-Natural and Organic. And I’d never go up to the deli-counter because that was scary, and if I did I’d probably be all, “um, like how much is like a pound or something?” I’d only buy things that I recognized: Triscuts, boxed White Zin, and Kid Cusines, the one that came with the fried chicken and the brownie/pudding situation.
But now, I’m a shopping maven, I stay away from frozen fake food, I hardly ever wander into the center of the store, and I buy produce that sometimes I can’t even pronounce like endive. Is it en-dive or en-deeve?
So happy birthday to me, I’m another year older, and all I have to show for it is sensible grocery store decorum, an addiction to fashion that I could never afford, a few cavities, and absolutely no desire to eat the brownie/pudding situation.
But hey, things can’t be all bad because at least I don’t have a face hole.
So there’s that.