Tomorrow is my 34th birthday. I'm curious as to how much longer I'll be comfortable saying my age out loud, in public. I hope I'll never be embarrassed about it, but you never know. My mom has always been cool with whatever age she's at. I remember her 40th birthday party, and thinking, "Wow! We're going to have to put her in a home soon." 


40 doesn't seem so old anymore.


Actually, every year I seem to alter my definition of the different categories of age. Now, middle age doesn't start until 45. I'm much more comfortable with that. Old age doesn't begin until 80, so I've got a long way to go, plus I don't like thinking of my parents as being old. It creeps me out.


It makes me wonder if being old was always something dreaded and avoided, or if we were ever able to just accept the fact that everybody does it, and the alternative is being dead, which isn't exactly easy on your body either. 


I say this, knowing full well that I will look at my wrinkles in the mirror the next time I go into the bathroom and despair.


Why can I not have some fricking pigment in my skin? I'm so pale and my skin is so dry that I had crow's feet by my eyes when I was in my late teens. Seriously. I've mended the huge frown line in the middle of my forehead with a lot of moisture and a conscious effort not to furrow my brow when I'm thinking deep thoughts (which is all the time...I don't just have fart jokes running around up there 24/7...okay, maybe I do, but let me pretend that I'm thinking about world peace or the cure for some disease), but the eye lines just will not budge.


I try to think that my wrinkles come from my grandma, who is probably the coolest lady around, so that's not a bad thing. My big hands and ape-arms come from my grandpa on my dad's side, so I don't mind them at all (well, maybe a little, but not as much as the pruny action on my face). Why can I not accept the wrinkles in the same way?


Aw, who am I kidding? The wrinkles, the arms, everything bothers me. Except this year will be different. Not only have I become a better person through being positive and not worrying so much about everything, but this year, my age is an even number. I love even numbers. They are divisible by two. 


Okay, so maybe I'm not actually a better, less neurotic person. Maybe I'm just trying to be, and the trying itself is the part that matters, right? Sure it is. Plus, I get presents and cake and I'm going away for the weekend on a surprise trip with my wonderful husband, who knows how much I love surprises.


And cake. Did I mention cake? I'm pretty sure I did, but I think cake is worth two mentions. Oh, and wine. Wine is also worth two mentions. 


I am going to gain about 50 pounds between now and Monday. Awww yeah!