It's my birthday today.
Yeah, that doesn't really work. I remember when I was a kid, I thought that adults were A) lying or B) really boring people when they said birthdays weren't a big deal to them any more. Well, call me boring, because they just don't matter as much as they used to. Don't get me wrong--I love the 7AM phone calls and 20,000 Facebook birthday wishes as much as the next gal. But when I was younger, the entire day seemed to shimmer with excitement. I can go entire stretches of time now on my brithday without even remembering that it is, in fact, my birthday. Birthdays used to be celebrated by staying up late. Now I celebrate by sleeping in late.
I am not one of those people who does not want to admit her age. Maybe I will be some day, but I somehow doubt it. I turned 33 today. For some reason, this has resonated with me on several levels.
33. Thirty three. As close to a third of 100 as you can get. Over halfway to Social Security (if it's still around in 2041). Sirty sree if you talk like Ethan.
The age Jesus was when he was betrayed by one of his best friends, tortured and killed.
Thirty two was good to me. Thirty three is bound to be a wild ride--I'll have offspring #3, send #1 to second grade and #2 into pre-K, and have to go from saying the year beginning with "two thousand" to beginning with "twenty." BIG stuff, people. I'm not worried, though. I'm sure God will help me survive through this year and beyond--if for no other reason than to see what I can come up with to write about when I turn 40.