Two years ago, for my birthday, I got lice. And by “I,” I of course mean me, my daughter, and my son. I spent my birthday literally nitpicking. Last year I got Adam’s high school reunion with funky cold medinas and no cake. So I knew that [warning: TMI alert] when I went to the bathroom this morning and discovered my pee was red that clearly I had a kidney infection. What else can I expect from my birthday?
One Google search later and I had narrowed it down to two options: I either had Porphyria (a hereditary disease in which part of the hemoglobin is not made) or I had beets last night. A quick mental scan of the previous night revealed it was the latter.
We can stop right there. This birthday is a success. Let’s call it a day before anyone can screw it up.
No, no, the day turned out perfectly lovely, although not as blog-worthy as some people might have hoped. I got a solid morning of writing done (the second draft of my novel is on target to be finished in the next week), the girl and I had pedis, and then we all had a lovely dinner out. And, yes, there was cake. Of course for the “Are you one? Are you two? Are you three?” my boy had to be clever and count by tens. But I suppose that’s the logical thing to do when you have a middle-aged mom. (I said to the girl, “When Nana was my age, she had a daughter who was the same age she was when I was born.” The girl said, “Really? Who was the daughter!”)
And now I’m going to look over my booty, drink my whiskey sour, and revel in my middle-agedness. Happy old to me!
Happy Birthday! So glad you had a good one (but no funky cold medinas this year? A TRAVESTY!)