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42
Why is it that we count our years of age, anyway? I mean we know our birthdate. D’uh. We have a birth certificate and crap. And we can celebrate on the anniversary of that date every year, if we like — there’s no sense not having a party with cake and ice cream. But why do we have to count the years of our life like we’re fucking prisoners in jail, marking time in scratches on the wall? Is that how we feel? Like we’re trapped in our own lives just waiting for the comforting kiss of death? We’re all sad and pathetic, just ticking off the time like we’ve…
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Year Forty and One
So, I’ve been forty-one for a couple of months now and I would’ve thought that I’d hate it. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t love the number, but now that I’m realizing how much of my response to that number comes from what men have told me (men who have decided that they’re still sexually spry at the age of 80), I’m a little like “fuck you, whatever”. Basically, me at 41 is pretty unapologetic about who I am. And that has honestly changed my entire life. Sure, I’m still married and pretty much all the vital stats are the same but the growth I’ve had in the past…
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It’s My Birthday and I’ll Whine If I Want To
I’m a totally reasonable person. I try not to get hung up on petty or trivial things. I take pride in the fact that I don’t really care what celebrities are wearing or who anyone is sleeping with. The things that tend to really upset me have more to do with civil rights, health care, violence, poverty, shit like that. Now having said ALL of that, I’m turning 40 next week and I fucking hate it. I hate it and I don’t want to and I am so totally going to approach this birthday kicking and screaming the whole way. Now I do realize that — and yes,…
