Today I’ve been very antsy. I can’t keep my mind on the book I’m reading (Testament by Margaret Atwood), my attention to details is more lacking than usual, and I’m constantly in search of a snack. If I didn’t know better I’d think I was pregnant. There’s absolutely no chance of that, by the way. I’ll be 63 tomorrow and I kicked my uterus to the curb at least a decade ago.
Maybe my impending birthday has me unsettled. Sixty-three is nothing to sneeze at, after all, especially if one has bladder control issues. Not naming names, but I have intimate knowledge of people who suffer.
Remembering birthdays past, the day I turned 12 my great-grandfather died. Mom picked me up from school and imparted the sad news as we walked from the school to her car. She apologized that my birthday party would need to be postponed since the funeral would be held on the day we’d planned to have friends over.
I remember being bummed, but I think I handled it okay. At least I don’t remember stomping off in a rage. I wasn’t always the most reasonable child, and I was undeniably unsettled on that day, too.
Fast forward to 2019, Studly Doright and I don’t have any birthday themed plans for this weekend. Tomorrow he’s playing golf, while I attend a wedding. I’m looking forward to dressing up and witnessing a celebration of the joining of two lives. We’ve moved so often that we haven’t formed those kinds of relationships–the ones where we are invited to weddings and graduations, baby showers and engagement parties. So I’m going to enjoy every minute of inclusion in the couple’s celebration.
Is there a purpose to today’s post? Not as far as I can tell, other than writing it kept me from eating a second Lara bar. I might not be pregnant, but I seem to be eating for two.