I love birthdays. My birthday countdown started on Tuesday, and I’m sure it surprised everyone who knows me in real life that I didn’t mention it that day. I am the type of person that has birthday months. But I love everyone’s birthdays, not just my own. Birthdays are a great reason to get together and have fun and open shiny presents. Not that I’m in it for the presents…okay, I totally am. I love giving presents, too. I like watching someone open a gift I picked out. It’s nice to make someone else happy.

I’ve never really understood why some people hate birthdays. Mike hates birthdays because he hates getting older. He says I’ll understand when I’m old like him. I’m a regular whipper snapper next to him. I usually can coax him into celebrating his birthday with the talk of presents and booze, but if it was up to him he’d still be 29 and living the life of…um, a 29 year old.

So, my point is, yeah, birthdays mean you’re a year older, but doesn’t that also mean you’re alive another year and all that happy crap? Blah blah blah. I’ve never had a problem with getting older (especially since, like I said, I’ll always be a youngster next to Mike). That is, until lately.

My hair is rebelling. I’ve made passing reference to finding some gray hairs recently. Suddenly the gray is getting kind of out of control. My hair is naturally sort of dark blonde/golden brown (that’s what the box says), but I’ve been dying it darker because everyone knows brunettes get more respect. It’s true, look it up on Wikipedia. Yet, after discovering the latest cluster of gray hairs, I’m thinking it might be time to go back to blonde. All the better to conceal the gray.

My eyes are failing. I had an eye exam yesterday, and my optometrist was appalled by how much my eyesight has deteriorated over the last year. Like, to the point where he called in his associate and said, “look at this!!!” Yay, I love that my eyes are as freaky as my uterus! Wait, that sounds weird. Anyway, I now have to get to wear special contacts and special glasses. I asked if I could get a handicapped placard but the optometrist didn’t get the joke.

My youthful good looks are fading. Yesterday I was at the check stand in Whole Foods buying the following items: Hylands Teething tabs, organic baby apple sauce, Belgian beer, and US Weekly. The checker was in training, and probably about 17 years old. She looked at my items, turned to the guy training her and said, “Do I I.D. her for this stuff?” The trainer said, “When someone is buying alcohol, you look at them and if they look younger than 35, ask to see their I.D.” The girl looked at me, scanned my items, and then said, “paper or plastic?” OUCH. She thought I looked older than 35! Granted, I’m much closer to thirty five than seventeen, but do I really look that much older than a teenager? The woman in line behind me sensed my mood and tried to comfort me by saying, “Don’t worry, she saw you were buying baby stuff! That’s why she didn’t card you!” Doubtful.

Tomorrow I’m going to procure a prescription for Boniva and get fitted for dentures. Maybe Mike will give me a blinged-out walker for my birthday. Hint hint!