By: Ann Brown
Yesterday I turned 57. No big whoop.
I mean, I’m happy to have made it through another year, especially after the clusterfuck year our family has had. But a birthday is just another day, you know? I mean, in a world where you can get a slice of layer cake any day at Starbucks and Toyota washes and vacuums your car every time you bring it in for a tune-up, what’s left to make a birthday special?
Is there any indulgence left that I deny myself until my birthday? Nope. I already get a Venti iced tea almost every afternoon. And in Oregon, you aren’t even allowed to pump your own gas. I am living the dream every day. A birthday is practically denouement.
Well, I did take an extra fifteen minutes on Facebook yesterday morning even though it meant I’d be late for work. Still, I do that every morning so I can’t really say I was celebrating my birthday. Ditto for leaving work early. And not answering my phone all day. And ignoring my family. It’s all pretty much an every day routine for me.
Yesterday, someone said to me, “Well, birthdays are all about great food and great sex.” And that got me to thinking.
I don’t think a lot about sex although I tend to describe food with a sort of lascivious innuendo, you know, like, “oooh, this just melts in my mouth” or “I can’t stop eating this” which could indicate a tiny sublimation issue. During actual sex, however, I tend to be less loquacious, keeping my sex talk to a minimum: “Yes, please.” “No thank you.” “Please remove the crusts.” And “sift twice to get out the lumps.”
For me, birthdays are not all about sex and food. They are all about gratitude that I did not wake up dead on any given morning that year. And they are about not answering the phone. Oh, and they are a little about food. Which is a little about sex.
God, I am exhausted and I’ve only been 57 for one day.