So today is my mumble-something birthday. Happy birthday to me – right? Yeah, whatever.
I’m not feeling really jazzed about my birthday this year. Not sure why.
Maybe it’s because I’m one year closer to death?
Ooh, I’m feeling maudlin. That’s
not good. I need to snap out of it. (But whenever I tell myself to snap out of
it, I hear Cher in my head from the movie, Moonstruck.
And then that sort of makes me laugh.)
What’s that? You’ve never seen Moonstruck because it came out when you
were five? Oh, you… just…hush. (You thought I was going to say
something else? Nah, I’m too old to be
mean and in-your-face. Besides, I was never allowed to say “Shut up!” when I
was young. Back in the Stone Age. And those
rules are still a little hard to break all these many decades later.)
Vince thinks we should act like we’re not grown up. Be silly.
Behave crazy sometimes. And,
okay, so there is some wisdom in that. If we act like we’re old and “over the
hill,” we’ll truly start to believe it – and to behave like it.
So on the drive to work, I listened to the Jamie Foxx show on Sirius XM.
For the most part, it’s a comedy station, but in between bits or interviews,
they’ll play music. Usually, it’s music
I don’t normally listen to – so I decided to stick with it to today see whether
or not I could stand it.
Coincidentally, the song that played next was by Rihanna – and the name
of the tune was “Birthday Cake.” Apropos,
no?
Um. Not so much. If you’re anywhere near my age, you would probably be shocked by the lyrics. They are definitely NOT the sort of lyrics
that would be sung by the servers at Applebee’s when your friends embarrass you
by having servers at Applebee’s sing Happy Birthday to you.
So I had to laugh. Here I am
trying to not act like my age. Be
silly. Behave crazy sometimes. And it’s not working. Instead of being entertained and singing
along, I was like a prudish old lady holding my hand over my open mouth and
saying, “Oh, my!” in a shocked whisper.
Yikes. If I’d been wearing a pair
of white lace gloves with granny spectacles perched on my nose and my hair up
in a bun, I could complete that mental picture for you.
When did this happen? I swear, I
was young and cool about a minute and a half ago.
Vince and I started watching a new series on Netflix, Orange is the New Black. It’s by the same creators as Weeds, which we just finished
watching. There are definitely scenes in these shows that I have been a little shocked to see on TV. Even if it IS Netflix. Seeing people with
their drawers pooled around their ankles as they sit on the toilet is perhaps a
little too graphic for my old-ish sensibilities. And, yeah, so it’s merely
depicting what people do in real-life – but do I really need to see it on
TV?
Whatever happened to leaving things to the imagination?
I’m not sure, but I really do think that ship has sailed. And I blame
reality television. (I blame reality television for a lot of things, including
my sore left elbow. I don’t know why my left elbow is sore, so blaming reality
television is as good a reason as any.)
It’s not like I want things to go back to unreality TV. Back to the early
days of television when married couples were shown sleeping in separate twin
beds so as not to offend public sensibilities.
Back to the days of early television when women wore pearls and stockings and pumps and aprons over their dresses while they vacuumed the living room.
I mean, who did that? I don’t remember my mom ever wearing pearls. Or
even vacuuming the living room, for that matter, although I know she surely must have done it a
time or two. I clearly recall, however, inheriting
that little chore when I was old enough and tall enough to push the Hoover
around without the handle smacking me in the forehead.
So it’s not like I’m completely yearning for the good ol’ days. But – I admit – I really would like to wake
up in the morning without some new mysterious ache or pain. Like my sore left elbow.
Maybe I should follow Vince’s advice. I should go out today and buy
myself a helium-filled balloon and tie it around my wrist and look up at it in
wonderment and awe. I should buy myself a birthday cake and gleefully plant my
face in the middle of it and get frosting up my nose and in my ears and on my eyebrows.
And maybe I should tell myself that age is just mind over matter. And if
I don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.
Yeah, right. Besides, do you know
how difficult it is to get frosting out of your nose and ears?
So instead, I think I’ll be a grown-up and look at this birthday as one
more year to experience life. One more year to learn something new. And one
more year to love my family and friends.
Hmmm. Now that sounds like a grown-up solution to combat my maudlin
thoughts.
But still. I may just have to stop on my way home from work and pick up a helium-filled balloon.
Wonderment and awe should never have an expiration date.
