On Monday, I turned 35. To some it’s the beginning of the backside of 30.
To me it holds a different meaning.
You know how you always think of your age to your relation of your significant other. John was always 2 years older than me. People often joke, “I’ll always be older/younger than you.”
News flash… there’s almost never an always
I don’t think I’ll ever compare age like that again.
Well, on Monday, I turned the same age that my husband was when he died. It was very difficult for me. I took my birthday off of my Facebook profile and didn’t make a big deal out of it. I pretty much hoped that everybody would forget about it. I didn’t even take the day off of work and I almost always do. This year was two-fold. There was the end of month pressures with lower than ideal numbers and there was the nagging knowledge that I’ve used all of my sick days and have very little wiggle room left… just a few- very few- “vacation” days till the end of the year. I’m not a risk taker and didn’t want to put myself in danger of having to take off without days, I feel fairly confident that if need be I can drag my sick carcass into work and make it through a day in order to schedule a “vacation” day for the other sick day… but I don’t want to not have days available.
The new me wonders… why do adults even celebrate birthdays anyway? Woo Hoo… I’m older. Woo Hoo… one year closer to death. Numbers and dates suck for me right now… and maybe for the rest of my birthdays they will… I don’t know.
Anyway… Monday came and went. A few people remembered. I’m now 35. Woo Hoo (said sarcastically).
My sister sent me a very meaningful card…
I know this post doesn’t come across that way… but I’m trying… I’m trying…