With a pretty significant birthday staring me in the face and the lines on my forehead forming a six lane freeway with little off ramps headed toward my hairline, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to rectify my sad state of facial affairs and survive the “big” day is with an assist from modern medicine. Toward that end, I’ve found a doctor, booked a free consultation, and pillaged our mutual funds in preparation for bankrolling my body work. I think that’s fair. After all, that money was earmarked for the kids’ college. So even if my boys can’t go at least I’ll look young enough to.
All kidding aside, I hate birthdays. Particularly “landmark” birthdays family and friends fuss over. You know; the kind of milestone event that elicits covert phone calls and furtive whispers as people try to decide what to buy me to cushion the blow.
Of course, no one says that, but it’s what they’re thinking. Only on “big” birthdays do people proffer trips and shiny trinkets, spa days and designer handbags. On regular birthdays, it’s a coup just to get a card.
And frankly this year I’d be happy to forgo the Shoebox Greetings.
There’s really nothing anyone can give me that I haven’t gotten already. Flabby abs and stretch marks? Check. Under-eye bags the size of breasts? Mine are at least a B-cup’s worth of badness. Saggy lids, adult acne, and the luster free skin that’s the hallmark of the hot flash set? Trust me; I’m a dermatologist’s dream.
Clearly I’ve got it all, so there’s no need to buy me anything.
There is, however, one gift everyone can give me that requires no shopping, no wrapping, no rushing to make sure I receive it on the exact day the earth was graced with my wiseacre attitude, and no wondering if I’ll like it. Believe me when I tell you I’ll love it. Are you listening?
A lie.
Not a big, soul blackening lie. A small lie. An itty, bitty, teensy, weensy white lie. The kind of insignificant, inconsequential prevarication I’m pretty sure even God would give a pass.
