My birthday is in one week, and I’m knee-deep in the birthday blues.
I don’t really like getting older. I do a pretty good job of masking my age to most people, but I’m especially good at lying to myself – not really out of vanity (okay, maybe a little out of vanity) but because when I take a good look at my surroundings – and at myself – I feel an unwanted twinge of embarrassment. How can I justify all these toys and video games and looking this ridiculous at my age? Shouldn’t I be .. more mature? More refined? More not wearing polka dots, docs and sequined leg warmers all at the same time?
Don’t get me wrong – most of the time, I think I am hilarious and awesome. I *like* who I am (on the inside) and I rarely if ever think there’s anything wrong with video games and sequins. It’s only because my birthday – a fairly significant one, at that – is looming that I feel any sort of wistful longing to be 23 again.
It doesn’t help that this past weekend I found myself wrought with jealousy and coveting – not because someone had a cooler scooter or fancier toys or greener eye shadow, but over some truly disturbing things: a dishwasher. In-suite laundry. Pre-approved mortgages. Prime plus two percent. A good night’s sleep.
I have never, EVER wanted any of these things – but there I was, all green in the eye and face and wishing that I could have them. I swear, I have never felt as old as the instant I realized I was looking enviously at a washing machine and heaving a longing sigh. Who was this reasonable mature beast, and what had she done with the real Kimli? If I’m already jealous of my newly home-owning friends, can a sensible diet high in fibre be far behind?
I know you’re only as old as you feel and for 11 months of the year I feel 12 years old, but right now I’m downright depressed at the thought of my upcoming birthday.
Is that a wrinkle I see?