I just remembered that I share a birthday with dooce, which I forget every year and then discover it and think it’s awesome.
Holidays always make me think back and reflect on the meaningfulness of the passing of the years or some crap. I also think by this time, I’m supposed to start lamenting about getting old or something. I know I’m going to probably sound like one of those self-deceiving grannies who wear red hats and say they’re 80 years young, but I honestly don’t feel very old.
I’m not sad to be turning 26. I’m not sad that I’m close to 30. I don’t feel like I need to get married or have babies or ride a donkey to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I feel that there’s plenty of time for all three. In one day, if I can plan it right.
My assistants at camp used to bust my chops because they were all 19-21 and I was an elderly 25 and used phrases like “bust my chops,” but it never got to me. I’m glad to not be 19-21. I was a moron when I was 19-21. And now I’m only slightly less of a moron. Very slightly less.
For example, I just paid off my car loan today. It was supposed to be until October of ’08, but I’ve been overpaying for a few months, and I finally paid the last one today. The check’s memo was “YEAH, BABY!” and on the back of the envelope, I drew confetti and a party hat.
Then I mailed the letter with a stamp that hasn’t been used for six months, so I guess it will either come back to me or make the street lunatics who go through our mail very, very happy.
Happy Birthday to me!