My birthday is less than a week away, and I’m dreading it. I don’t know about all of you, but I haven’t liked birthdays (my birthdays, at least) since I was in my 20s. Back then, it was all fun and cake and presents. Now, it just reminds me that I’m getting older.
PatientHubby tries his best to put a positive spin on it. “You’re celebrating another year of life!” he says. Yeah, but that’s like saying it’s an accomplishment that I survived this past year. And maybe it is – but that doesn’t mean I like the idea. I’d much rather that living another year were just a foregone conclusion.
I know I’m being negative. I just can’t help it. I’m already menopausal. Do we really need to emphasize the number, too? I’d rather not.
And there will be a fuss, too. PatientHubby’s family is big on birthdays, and so is he. I’ve asked that we just stay home and make, if anything, a quiet evening of it. But I’m suspecting a “surprise” party. He does it every year, so it’s not really much of a surprise. It’d be one thing if everyone just came, said “happy birthday” or whatever, cleaned up after themselves, and left. But, if it’s anything like last year, it’ll be a late night, I’ll be exhausted and wanting to go to bed, and people will be SLOW in leaving. And then I’ll have to clean up after all of them.
Yeah, that sounds like fun.
I guess I’ll see how it goes.
Love and balance,