The birthday where I turn 26 again and how I don't find that funny.

In an effort to ensure he never gets laid again, Bub used two nice, big candles proclaiming that I was turning 26. On my 31st birthday. He thought it was funny and cute. He was forgiven.

Some would say this is the equivalent of a woman stating that she is turning 29 for the 5th, 6th, 7th time, but all this did was remind me that I’m not just thirty any longer. I’m IN MY 30s. And that is scaring the ever-loving bejesus out of me.

What’s so scary, right? It’s only a number. I have a job and a house and a gorgeous family. I have people who love me, like me and want to take care of me when I need it. For some reason, though, this birthday has scared me more than my thirtieth did. The only thing I worried about last year was wrinkles. And now I have them. Probably caused by the worry about getting them. Irony.

Now I’m just… worrying. I’m worrying blindly about something I don’t know to worry about yet. Maybe it’s a fear of becoming middle-aged and everything that implies? The bad jeans, the authoritative tone, the shorter hair styles, the judging of other mothers at the school parent meetings, the need to constantly turn the radio to the 90s channel and sing Pearl Jam songs while my kid cringes, and the possible “family car”. Somewhere along the way I am going to lose whatever cool I do have. Admittedly, that’s not a lot, but I would like to hang on to the bit I do have.

I’m thisclose to wearing skinny jeans and become a Michael Cera fan.

To counter-balance this feeling of turning old, I painted my nails glitter gold last night and I keep staring at them like a kid with a new pair of shoes.
Here’s to another year.

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Liz in Dublin