Sixteen candles might make a lovely light, but you can toast marshmallows over forty-three.
Because I secretly crave validation and attention, I must share the fact that today is my 43rd birthday. To some people, I’m still just a baby. To others, I’m as old as dirt itself.
I woke up today feeling absolutely no different from how I did yesterday. (Like shit, ahem.)
Aging is a gradual process and just because we celebrate the day of our birth, it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things.
The only evidence that I’m older shows on my face, creases where none existed before and the glittery silver that streaks throughout my natural dark brown hair.
Also, my boobs just ain’t as perky as they used to be. Them’s the breaks.
My Aunt Merrie, one of my two namesakes, passed away of a brain aneurysm at the age of 36 while she was painting. I have outlived her by 7 years and I am grateful for that. I never got to meet her, nor my grandma Mary, who died of a heart attack in her early 50’s.
When I look at my 1st birthday photo up above, it makes me nostalgic for days gone by. My childhood was mostly a beautiful time in my life and I would give my entire Beatles record collection to go back for just one more day.
If I wanted to, I could buy myself a chocolate cake and eat the entire fucking thing (and then go into a diabetic coma.)
No, only a little baby with adorable fat folds has that right. Not a middle-aged women with a body that can’t process glucose correctly.
If I could, I’d crawl into that picture and give that baby a big hug. I’d whisper in her ear that life wasn’t always going to be that easy, but that she was strong enough to deal with it. I’d tell her to steer clear of douchebags, not to roast her skin in the sunshine using baby oil and to get better grades in school.
Then I’d grab a handful of that cake and skedaddle out of there, leaving 1975 forever in the dusty passages of memory.
Because no matter how we may wish that we could go back in time, that isn’t how any of this shit works.