They say it’s your birthday

It’s my birthday too, yeah.

And yes, we are planning on having a good, if subdued, time. There might even be a small party party.

Some interesting facts:

• The Man and I share a birthday, though I am younger, and thus according to our society better and prettier, by two whole years.
• He’s officially becoming an old man today, as it’s his 30th. 30 years old. Three-zero. I am, indeed, planning on having a field day with this. Think I should change his blog moniker to Old Man? Think I would have any friends left over 29 if I did that?
• The last point doesn’t really work, because while women apparently expire at age 30 (or at least our uteri, sex appeal, and social relevance do), men are just hitting their stride, and have at least another 30 40 years of romantic leading-man left in them.
• This has me contemplating: When was the last time you heard a man say he was turning 29… again? The last time you heard a woman say it? The last time you said it? And if you think I’m blaming women for being too vain, you’ve missed the whole damn point.
• The Man’s and my first real conversation revolved around our shared date of entry into the extrauterine world. So, it might be said we owe our relationship — and thus the Boychick — to the twist of fate that got us out of our mothers exactly two Terran revolutions around Sol apart, and being in a culture that attaches significance to those arbitrary dates.
• I am going to be 28. It’s only been within the past few years that I’ve stopped thinking “That’s for me!” when I see advertisements for teen spaces. I’m wondering if I’ll let go of the 20-something identity any faster. At least I still have a couple years to let it sink in. One of the many advantages of being partnered with an old man.
• All I want for my birthday is sanity, time to write, and infinite patience. Is that really too much to ask? Why are you laughing?
• Thanks to my friend Jenn, I keep thinking about doing a graduate program after I finish massage school, and then I remember I have to graduate college first. I am 28 years old and do not have a college degree. I’m trying to accept this.
• I might also like a bachelor’s degree, wrapped in faded old sheepskin. That would be nice.
• I may not be doing as good a job accepting the lack of degree as I might wish. I’m trying to accept that lack of acceptance. Maybe I can get that for my birthday.
• School starts up again next week. I am not looking forward to it. This has nothing to do with my birthday, except that I am 28 years old, still in school (ok, in school yet again), and still too-often not looking forward to it. In this particular case, it might have to do with having yet another quarter in massage school without taking any actual massage courses. Which means I’m not the beneficiary of practice massages from fellow students either. I’m feeling a little touch-starved.
• I’d accept a massage for my birthday. I already gave The Man one yesterday. How come he gets a massage and I don’t? Other than not having the foresight to partner with a future massage student nigh on twelve years ago like he did. Maybe I should trade him in on a younger model with the massage school package.
• On second thought, nah. Who would I tease about being an old man then?
• The Boychick is 920 days old today, which is 9/20. But only in the US and other places where we for some inexplicable reason notate the date Month/Day. That joke doesn’t really work in the UK. Sorry Brits.
• I listened to The Beatles’s Birthday Song on repeat while composing this post. This may explain some things. This may also reduce the chances of getting the sanity I wished for for my birthday.

So, most of those facts weren’t so much facts. It’s my birthday, I can bloviate if I want to.

Some interesting facts, that are actually more like facts — and historical to boot! –, in paragraph form this time:

One year ago, I was signing a contract for a delayed-repayment loan — that will eventually cost me 200% of the tuition of the program — so I could try this school thing once again. I was worried about leaving the Boychick for 3 hours at a time once a week: because we’d never been apart for that long, because he rarely went without milk for that long, because The Man had never been on his own with him for that long. Now, he regularly goes for 12 hours at a time without milk, the risk of engorgement is a thing long-past, and I’d weep for the chance at three hours on my own (where I wasn’t struggling to stay awake in the world’s slowest Anatomy and Physiology course, which might also have something to do with the dread this quarter).

One year ago, I had also just euthanized the dog I’d had since I was 12, and was preparing to take our 1.5 year old down to California for the first time, for a child-free-except-him wedding. (These are unrelated facts, except for having to deal with all of them in rapidly close succession. I’m not sure I’ve yet really dealt with just how much I went through around then, especially with the loss, without proper time to mourn and adjust and process.)

Three years ago, I felt the not-quite-gas bubblings of the Boychick growing and stretching and swimming in my womb for the first time. One of the better birthday presents I’ve ever gotten.

Twelve years ago, The Man was calling me to mock-complain that I’d stolen all our mutual friends for my birthday party, so they weren’t available to celebrate with him. I told him to come over as well, and that more-or-less started the not-dating we did for a few months before we became A Couple.

Sixteen years ago, my dad took me and a couple friends to an amusement park, the only part of which I really remember is riding an old wooden roller coaster, being lifted out of my seat and slammed back down, damaging something in my low back and sacrum, which injury has bothered me and caused problems ever since.

And of course, twenty-eight years ago, I danced with my mother, danced down from her womb, into her arms, and snuggled into the birthing center’s bed, latched on to her breast, content to sleep, protected and loved by my mother on one side and my father on the other.

Which really sort of puts it all back into perspective, doesn’t it?

Thank you for dancing with me, Mom. Thank you for birthing me. All in all, I’m quite glad you did.