HB2Me

DH hates the song “Happy Birthday.” He says that everyone sings it too slowly, so it comes out sounding like a dirge more than the celebratory air it should be. Methinks I agree. I’m a Stevie Wonder “Happy Birthday” kinda gal (moreso than The Beatles’ “Birthday”), which is in no way dirgelike or, come to think of it, clichéd.

And on this, my 43rd “natal day,” as my grandfather was wont to say, I admit that I don’t want to be a cliché as I grow older. I will not be a teacher who succumbs to the tide of denim and apple motif clothing. I will not be a cranky church lady who forgets that children, messy and annoying and distracting they may be, are the lifeblood of a church. I will not submit to the minivan, though I am now officially a soccer and a baseball mom.

What does that mean? Not sure, exactly, but it’ll probably involve some soul-searching about lots o’stuff and making some hard decisions. And cleaning out the closet of the faux-me to make room for the real-me. Scary stuff.

But 43 says I’m a grownup (allegedly), so I can handle it. I have big girl pants and everything.

Off to dinner with the fam. Italian. Good stuff.