Today is my birthday. I am 32 years old.
I’ve always been a birthday person, but over the last few years, I’ve found it harder and harder to celebrate it. I don’t have issues with my age – I’ve always said that getting older will force people to take me seriously. Since my birthday falls at the end of August, it always feels like celebrating my birthday goes hand in hand with mourning the end of summer. I always get bummed out a few weeks before my birthday, knowing that the end of summer is imminent and my birthday and then Labour Day weekend will put the final nails in the coffin. Once fall starts to really kick in, my bummed-out feelings start to fade and I start to enjoy the warmer clothes and cooler days and everything continues on as usual.
Working on my birthday doesn’t help these bummed-out feelings. Being a summer baby, I didn’t go to school on my birthday until I was in my last year at college. Once I started working, I booked my birthday off as often as I could. I stopped that for the last few years due to enforced vacation time at the beginning of August when my office closes for a week. I didn’t want to blow two thirds of my allotted vacation time in one month.
So I started working on my birthday. And my birthday, and all the special things I’d like to do that day just felt like another bunch of items to complete on the to-do list. Nothing special, just obligatory. Now that Flora’s birthday is four days after mine, my birthday should rightfully take second place to hers. At two, she’s not birthday-crazy yet, but at four, or seven, or eleven, she will be. My birthday stuff shouldn’t eclipse hers. I’m okay with that but I still want my day to be at least a little special.
I’m hoping I’ll be able to sneak out and get a pedicure during lunch, but I’m playing that by ear. If I can, great. If I can’t, no big deal. I want to spend time with Sean and Flora, but I also want some time to myself. I wanted that before I became a parent, and I still want it now. I like to wander around, pretend I’m a woman about town. Do some shopping (window or real). Do some spa-type stuff. Read a good novel. Write something interesting about it all. It’s hard to fit all that in after a full work day and being a contributing member to my family.
I don’t want cake because every time we buy a cake for me, Sean and I eat a slice or two and the rest gets chucked after weeks in the fridge. I bought some mini cupcakes that will satisfy the need for birthday cake, and any leftovers can be brought out at Flora’s party without it looking strange.
You’re probably reading this and wondering “why was she babbling about beauty marks in the title of this post?” I’ll tell you that now.
I have two moles on my face. One near my right eye and one under my chin. I’ve had them forever and they don’t bother me – they’re just part of my face. I never thought about them much until Flora started pointing them out to me asking what they were then saying “Amole.” (She says it as if it was one word.) “Mummy’s mole. Flora’s mole.” (Everything mine is hers, even if they’re attached to my face.)
Last week, I was getting ready for bed and was surveying my face for zits. (I must still be young; I look for zits and not wrinkles.) Then I noticed something unusual about my moles.
They have hair growing out of them.
Eww. Eww. Fucking EWW!
They’re not big gross long dark hairs, but I never thought I’d be one of those ladies with the big hairy moles on their face. For all I know, those hairs have grown there forever and I’m only just noticing them now.
Only now that I’ve noticed them, I can’t unnotice it. I wonder if I could (or should) be getting them removed? How much would it cost (since it would likely be cosmetic). Is the potential scarring worth it in two places on my face? What if the doctor poked my eye by accident?
I’m sure I’ll be mostly over this by the time fall rolls around. I may bring it up with my doctor when I have my next physical. But until then, those moles are the symbol of my fading youth and my impending middle age. I never thought I’d be that grumpy about fading youth and impending middle age but those mole hairs really grossed me out.
So yeah, it’s my birthday. Hopefully it’s a good one. The moles will get mad if it isn’t.