My birthday was on Saturday. And I do believe it was possibly the worst birthday of my entire life.
There was no particular reason. Sure, turning 36 years old is a little confronting - I am now officially closer to 40 than 30 - but it hasn't been on my mind. I wasn't fretting about it. I'm 36, am frequently mistaken for someone ten years younger, I have three beautiful children and a man I both respect and adore after 12 years together. My age doesn't worry me – I'm exactly where I should be.
And yet, I felt low all day. In fact, it started the day before.
Maybe I knew that I would wake to the sound of Ziggy crying in distress. The moment I heard it I thought, Seriously, again? He's throwing up AGAIN?
We had plans for the day and they were immediately canned because what kind of animal takes a kid with lingering gastro out into the world for others to become infected?
As it turned out, it was some kind of 'start the day' spew and then, business as usual. The kid was fine. But still, we stayed home. Because what kind of animal et cetera.
It's not like I didn't love my presents either. I got a gravy boat and a Dymo labelmaker. Note: there is no hidden sarcasm here. I love the shit out of those presents! The presents were not the problem.
And a sweet friend popped over with a little gift and even though I was not showered and looked like a bag lady, her visit lifted my spirits.
But that didn't last either.
I don't know. I love, love, love my birthdays. I always have. I've even been known to pop a bit of glitter on my face just because, you know, I'm the birthday girl.
My face was quite glitter-free on Saturday.
*Sad (glitterless) face*
I think maybe I am feeling 36 at the moment. A bit tired, a bit low.
Never mind. I'm over it already….
A birthday click?