I Love Birthdays
Isn’t it sad how most women fear getting older? How much money we spend on facial treatments, personal trainers, Lycra undergarments, and hair dye to avoid the appearance of aging? Like the bimbos on Jersey Shore are really having any more fun than actual grown-ups.
Today is my 39th birthday. If you’d asked me three years ago whether I’d see 39, I might have said no. And I know there are a lot of people out there who will quake at the impending doom of the big four-oh, worrying that it symbolizes the fading of youth, the approach of pop-culture irrelevance, the relegation to “old-person” status. (Okay, maybe not Dara Torres.)
Not me. I’m thrilled to be having a birthday at all. And if I get the chance to go grey, to get (more) wrinkly, I’ll be excited about it. Not just because it’ll save me a fortune in blonde highlights, but because it will advertise my success. It will broadcast the triumph of will, love, modern medicine and good nutrition over the evil cancer monster. It will announce to the world that I am more interesting than I was at 25, more complex, a better friend, partner, and parent. I will have wisdom to share, stories to tell, funnier jokes. (I’m willing to let the bikini go for funnier jokes.)
I know I come back to this analogy frequently, but I feel like aging adds more and more intricate pieces to the mosaic image that is my life. The pixels get smaller, the details crisper, the image sharper. More interesting.
Old people are cool. Bring it on.
I hope I'll look like this.
I'm a two-and-a-half time ovarian cancer survivor who is not only determined to make it to sixty but also to look damn good while getting there. My two boys, husband, and dog are counting on me to get out of bed every day, so I might as well wear something cute and make each one COUNT. I'd love to hear from you about your odyssey - sharing makes it all easier to take. And laugh at.
The Carcinista 