Age of Ordinary

There’s nothing like the week before your birthday. You begin to notice, at first, that you have some new wrinkles on your hands. Huh. Lotion. Denial begins with this precarious but fervent NO! NO! There is NO BIRTHDAY! kind of way. Your brain takes over like a kindly nursemaid before you can do any New Year’s Eve like reflection and a drunken, baudy (at least in my case) personal Auld Lang Syne. And then JesusChrist! MotherofGodandAllHisDisciples! Your kids start lying about the presents they’re getting you and instead name stuff they want to get you that’s really for them. “Mommmmm…would you like a gift certificate to Build-A-Bear for a pink bear with a blonde wig and round glasses? Mom! We got you a cotton candy machine! And sparkly nail polish and earrings with glitter and a 1/200th replica of the TIE Fighter!”

I am fond of saying that I had my 30s in my 20s, so now I can have my 20s in my 30s, but the truth is that I can no longer drink that much, stay up that late, be that insecure, or get pregnant. It’s just altogether unpleasant. But the truth is, I will be minivan-aged. I will be dye-your-roots aged. 31, to me, is boxed wine on the patio. I will be in the Age of Ordinary. Even 35 is more exciting, I can only presume.

What are the words to Auld Lang Syne? I can’t remember.