Loose Ends

My birthday was on Monday. I am now 32, so I can stop anticipating the worse. My life is not over, and God willing, I'll get to see 33.

There I said it. "God willing..."

That is one of those statements that scream "I've gotten old." My grandmothers said it. I'm sure that my grandfather said it, and I know that my late uncle said it too. One day, I'll torture my children by saying it all the time.

I spent my birthday at work. I have a temp gig downtown, and I can set my own schedule. I had initially intended to spend this week preparing for trial, but I thought better of that and decided to spend the time earning money. You see, at the beginning of the week, I was scheduled to be in trial today. As of yesterday, I was technically fired from the case. So, it appears that I made a good call.

The other thing I did on my birthday was to buy a cup of coffee and actually put money in the tip jar. I think that whole concept of a tip jar at what is essentially a fast food place is silly. All the coffee people do is fill a paper cup (esp. in my case, since I rarely order the designer joe). Why should I tip them for that? But it was my birthday, and I wanted to do something nice for someone else. The guy got a dollar. Now he can afford a cup of coffee too.

The other thing I did was get my nails done. That was a waste, because clearly, it takes very little skill to paint one's nails. But because it was my birthday, and I never get manicures, I thought it would be a nice change of pace. Well, she spent about 20 minutes on me and then she abandoned me for some busy chick who was getting a pedicure. I tipped four dollars, so now she can buy herself a nice cup of designer coffee.

And that was that. The hub and I had lunch together, and then later he cooked dinner for me. It was a pretty cool day.

I don't think that birthdays make that much sense. Why should people make a fuss about their birthdays when the day should really be all about our mothers, the ones whose hard work made the day possible? All I did was show up, cry and poop. My mother deserves a medal just for cleaning that sh** up. The only thing I manage to accomplish every 5th is to stay alive (and cry and poop).

That sounds very cynical. I've been in that kind of mood lately. And God willing, I'll be just as cynical about my 33rd birthday.