Happy Birthday. No Midlife Crisis Here.

One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would do that would tell anything.

Oscar Wild, A Woman of No Importance.

 

I never claimed that I was good at keeping a secret.

 

Baby, this is what 44 looks like.  And acts like, well, according to my friend Dee Brun on Slice.

 

 

Give me a party and I’ll do anything. Except crafts.  My CheeseBurgher hat was the ugliest one in the room, ribbon and glitter-free. However, Mara-style, it read:

 

Make it McSnappy

 

This is also 44: Dorky smile, sun spots, and all kinds of under eye disturbance (caused by staying up too late reading. Some things will never change.)

 

 

People say I haven’t aged, and that I look the same.  But, I really have gotten older. And, I’m proud to say so.  Every battle wound, whether physical or emotional has been well-earned, with lessons packed away for future reference.

 

I’ve got sun spots and wrinkles, cellulite and stretch marks.  I’m told I’m thin, but I still see the chubby child in the mirror who reminds me that one bite of cake is enough.  I’m pretty sure that exercise is good for me even though every time I try it, I hurt myself.

 

I know that I have value, and that if you don’t want to be nice to me, if you don’t like me, well, that’s your problem.

 

 

I’m lucky to have amazing kids who have made it to the teenage years without driving me completely bonkers (just sort of bonkers). I’m fortunate to have finally found my life’s work, and that several false starts are just the way it goes because after all with technology everything moves so fast anyway.   Contrary to what people say is ‘healthy’, my life’s purpose was discovered 18 years ago when my first child was born. No matter how old I get, I will be a mother before anything else.

 

I know that even though my Daddy is gone from this world, he’s always with me.

 

 

At 44 I like to laugh. No, I love to laugh. I’m silly most of the time, and even when I’m lecturing my kids I feel like giggling. I just got a tattoo (and in year 43 did some other out-of-comfort-zone things like entering a contest and hanging with actual writers.)  I appreciate a nice set of abs.

 

At 44 I still need my best friend.  I still need the validation of others because that’s the way I’m wired.  I still need my parents and my kids, and my doggies and a big hug from my husband when I’m crying.   I still look to my siblings for a good tussle and to remind them that you’re never too old for sibling rivalry.

 

I’m not having a midlife crisis, mom. I’m being 44.  I’m being me.  I’m the same. Just more saggy with hot flashes and some female bladder incontinence.  Sure, I’m a bit more mature. In the literal sense.  But never in the figurative sense. Because, no matter how old I get, this 32B chest will never sport a bubbie shelf.

 

Now, since calories don’t count on one’s birthday,  I’m off to eat some french fries and red velvet cupcakes.  Catch ya on the other side of the wrinkle cream…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had a debate with someone on Twitter about the