Today is my birthday. YAY. I love birthdays. Always have. This year I’m 33.
It’s funny, every time I tell someone that they say “Oooooh, how do you feel about turning 33?” or something along similar lines. Huh? I feel the same way about it that I felt about turning 20, or 25 or any other number that I’ve ever turned. I am not someone that has ever had a hang up about age. I was talking to my sister about it this morning and she feels the same way. She reckons that mum instilled the right attitude into us regarding getting older. I agree.
I wonder if perhaps I would feel differently if I wasn’t completely satisfied with my life. I have friends who are single that feel nervous about aging. Maybe if I hadn’t established my career or wasn’t financially stable. Or if I hadn’t done my share of living.
I’d be lying if I said there aren’t times when I mourn my youth. My body heals more slowly when I get injured. I have clicks in my joints that didn’t used to be there. But I have a sense of who I am that has taken me 33 years to establish. This body is home to me and I have come to love it.
I have friends that lie about how old they are. That seems like such an exhausting waste of time. Why would you bother? Surely it’s more about how you look and feel than when you were born. You either look after yourself and/or feel good or you don’t. You either like who you are or you don’t. Those are things you have control over. Age isn’t.
Whoa. I’m not sure how my birthday post turned into such a rant.
So far today I have fielded a million texts and emails, spent half my morning replying to wall posts on Facebook, eaten two pieces of cake and now I’m off to the pub for lunch.
Maybe next year I’ll have two birthdays.