It’s My Birthday and I’ll Cry If I Want To

Last weekend I celebrated my birthday. I’m not shy about telling my age. I was never one of those people who felt the need to lie about it. I don’t judge you if you do, it’s just not my thing.

At the writing of this post, I turned fifty-two precisely seven days, one hour, and twenty-seven minutes ago (my mother makes sure to remind me of the exact moment I entered this world, giving me as many gory details as she possibly can short of an actual reenactment).

I’m also not gonna lie and say I embrace my age. I think I’ve gotten better over the last few years about it, but I’m not quite there. I’m not sure I ever will be. I mean, how do you embrace something that keeps going up, instead of down? Unless we’re talking about the stock market?

The last time I checked, going up in this case means we are just closer to death. I know that sounds morbid, and it is. I have been worried about it since I was a kid. My obsession with time and it’s uncanny ability to move forward like a pig with its tail on fire is probably as healthy as telling Mike Tyson his tattoo is stupid.

I know it’s “just a number,” “you are as old as you feel,” and “it’s better than the alternative.” And for the most part I agree with all of it. Except the part where I’m fifty-two. And, well, getting older.

Heck, I should appreciate the fact I wasn’t a woman living in the 19th century. I’d be at the end of my life by now. If that doesn’t scare me, then nothing will.

Except my age.

Might I remind you Luke Perry died last month from a massive stroke. He was fifty-two like me. He didn’t get run over by a bus, or was in a plane crash. He didn’t suffer for months or years from cancer. He had a stroke. At fifty-two years old. And it’s freaking me out.

I feel bad for my physician. I’m a handful as it is already. I know she must not look very forward to my annual visit, which is in two weeks. My list is as long as Santa’s naughty list of things that bother me, and what I think they may be. Self-diagnoses is what I do best, even though I’m always wrong.

These days I do feel pretty good though. I’ve recently tried reversing the aging process as best I can without actual surgery or costly procedures. I’ve started using toner on my face, drinking less wine, and exercising.

Actual exercising. Like, going to the gym, putting on one of the only pairs of Lululemon leggings I own, and building up a sweat. Because everything is better in a pair of Lululemon leggings. My daughter said so.

I do worry about having a heart attack while exercising, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take for better health and a longer life. Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t even push my baby out of my body too hard for fear of having a brain aneurism. See how I’m growing?

So, Happy Birthday to me. Maybe next year I’ll look forty-five, feel thirty-five, and act fifteen.

I have the fifteen part down pretty pat. But I’m hoping that toner takes effect pretty soon so I’ll at least be able to say, “two out of three ain’t bad.”

I’ll let you know in eleven months, twenty-two days, and sixteen hours.

Things I Learned/Saw On Mommy’s Day Out

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Happy Birthday To Us!

I love the city.  I think I was a city girl in a previous life.  I could live there.  I could work there.  It’s as if I have been displaced.  There is nothing about the city I dislike.  Well, except maybe Times Square.

Every time I go, I learn something new.  It’s kinda like your spouse.  You could be together for 26 years and think you know it all, then discover something new about them.  It’s kind of cool.

Yesterday I went into the Big Apple with my best girlfriend.  It was a combo birthday celebration. Her birthday is March, mine is April.  It was a perfect day.  Here are some things we saw and/or learned:

  • That men like to drink beer on the train at 9am.  We did not get the memo.  But we are not men.  So, well, never mind.

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  • You excitedly and spur of the moment purchase tickets to see an off-broadway play called “Happy Birthday” because you think it just has to be, and then realize you made a mistake when no one there is under the age of 70.  4 words:  Read The Reviews First.
  • The cops on Canal Street are on to the vendors.  And the vendors have no problem snatching a bag out of your hand and pushing you out the door if one shows up.
  • That you will feel like a druggy if you spend too much time on Canal Street.  If you’ve ever been, you know what I mean.
  • That the lady ticket taker on the train hates her job and she lets you know it by slamming her big booty into you every time she walks past your seat.
  • New Yorkers don’t like it when you text during a play.  Even if it was just once.  Inside your purse.  And aren’t afraid to let you know it in their very nice New York’ish way.
  • Gay men like to be open about their sexuality.  Like really open.
  • Complete strangers of the female persuasion have no problem asking if you will give them a back massage.  I think they were with the gay men.
  • When you buy knock-off Tory Burch flats, make sure you look at them before you travel 2 hours to go back home.
  • Chinatown has practically taken over Little Italy.  What’s a girl gotta do to get some fresh pasta around here? (Yes, I blew the diet. But it was for a good cause.)
  • Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. plays “Forrest Gump” continuously on their TVs.  The bartenders hate it. What the bartenders don’t hate is making one kick-ass Hurricane.  (Warning: the food sucks so just go for the Hurricanes which is what we did.)
  • Drug addicts coming down from heroin like to sleep on the subway standing up and they use each other for support.  Aww, how cute. (Not that I know what coming down from heroin looks like, but if they were coming down from heroin, that’s what I believe it would look like.)
  • “Smith’s Bar” makes the best nachos and margaritas (I TOTALLY blew the diet).  Who knew?  $5 drinks during happy hour. Well, except the margaritas. Of course.

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  • You will blow through $200 in 30 seconds.  But I already knew that.  Just sayin’.

So, in a nutshell, I love me my NYC and hope to continue to learn new things about her.  Who wants to go for some Bubba Gump Hurricanes?  I’m buying.