I Am Not 39

I have a birthday approaching and I am considering  turning my real age.

I posted that on Facebook and someone so wisely, concisely asked, “Why?”

And so, I thought: BLOG POST!

Well, I stayed 39 because I got tired of what numbers seem to mean to people. There was all this MEANING or PRECONCEPTION or EXPECTATION attached to certain ages. And most of the meanings seemed to be things I should not do anymore, care about anymore, let bother me anymore.

Here is a small sampling: You should be married by now…Done having children by now…stop worrying by now…settled…done with that writing thing…stop expecting life to be fair…not getting tattoos…thin by now…giving up being thin…and the beat goes on.

And I didn’t like it.

So, I stopped.

I actually stopped a few times. I turned 30 twice. It was so easy. What happened is people didn’t remember I had turned 30 the year before so when they planned a big party for 30 when I was really 31, I didn’t want to be RUDE. I have not had many birthday parties in adulthood and wasn’t about to miss a great 30th just because I wasn’t actually 30. Details be damned.

Then I stayed 35 for a while. And then I just sort of appeared at 39. The next year I had a dinner with just a few people (DH is not a party planner) and a new dress, but I stayed 39 because everything about the idea of A MILESTONE BIRTHDAY bothered me.

MILE.

STONE.

THE BIG 4-0.

ICK.

But I’ve been 39 a while and it seems a little ridiculous. If I don’t figure something out, my daughter will be in her 30s before I leave mine.

(One option is to stop celebrating birthdays altogether, but the idea that I am going to give up cake, ice cream, and presents is more ridiculous than staying 39.)

So maybe, this year, I’ll turn my real age.

Or maybe I’ll just stop being 39.

Q: How old are you?

A: I’m not 39.