It’s easy to see my birthday is raising its monstrous face and starting to blow the putrescence of bad luck breath towards me. I complain about this every year, mostly because every new year brings a new bag of fun little surprises one usually doesn’t associate with growing another year older. And all the Catholic mayhem lately has inspired me to a greater commitment of observing tradition.
All that to say – here comes the birthday whining.
To the best of my knowledge, I haven’t spent much time whining about my age. Being only 23 this is probably because age isn’t an issue yet. And I’m thinking with my personality, I won’t ever really care what age I am. Inwardly, I started bemoaning my impending old age when I was 10…(Oh Lord! I’m never going to be one digit again!!!). Don’t laugh – it was a big deal then. But back to the birthday monster.This year, my favorite job ended two days ago. Exactly one week before Black Monday. Not only this, but the principal at the school I was working at seems to think I want to work every day eight hours. (What self-respecting 22 almost 23 year old wants to work 8 hours a day starting at 7???) So every morning this week I’ve been awakened by the most shallowly cheerful person in existence to ask me to work. You’d think I’d just start waking up at 6 so I’d be ready. But I’m holding on to the hopeless hope.
Round two. George is dying. Which is ironic, considering the George he was named after died a few years ago. It began a while ago, with the need for a transmission flush and two new tires. Then my heater core and all the hoses decided to retire. Now, my speakers and radio buttons have decided to hit the blink, as well as my tail lights. All the music blares with the bass all the way up – only through one speaker located next to the steering wheel. My clock is off and the buttons to adjust the time are busted. And anytime we need the air conditioner or heater, air will only come through the vent underneath the windshield.
Finally, a trip to my cardiologist brought mixed results. My mother was not in attendance – always a good thing considering she increases the stress level about 15 times above normal anytime we visit the infamous Dr. G. But due to my general state of fatness, I’m not longer allowed to drink milk, eat candy, drink coffee, and have to eat about a pound of salad a day. So this is what it’s like to be old. Lots of green stuff and no fun.
Now for all of you birthday lovers who are insulted by my disposition for hatred of that “special” day, I have one thing to say. You don’t know me. (And look up sarcasm in the dictionary).