Happy birthday to me

When I was in my twenties I used to look at people my age now, and just shake my head in wonder, because I definitely wouldn’t be one of those old fogies one day.  I was young, strong, brash, thought I was invincible, my body was whole and healthy, I could drink all night and follow up with a good puke and a five mile run.  Then I wasn’t any of those, and it wasn’t gradual, it was more of a light switch, and OMFG I’m in the midst of early-middle age.

Now I’m embracing old fogie-ness, have become a zen-like one with my inner curmudgeon.  I’m a heck of a lot more comfortable in my own skin than I was 20 years ago, though my joints literally creak now, I haven’t been able to run in years, and I can do that Mel Gibson-Lethal Weapon shoulder thing if I want.  Maybe I’ve always liked Ed Harris movies because I can identify with him; you see in his face and eyes that he’s been through a lot, yet he’s almost always underestimated and finds a way to prevail.

My job ain’t the best in the world, but whose is besides Bill Gates?  I’m typing this on my dining room table, looking at the seven-foot Christmas tree that Ryan helped me decorate, under which Santa will surely be generous in another month.  I see the little green potty that he uses with increasing and encouraging frequency.  I see his keyboard/mini DJ booth, which he’s ignoring in favor of our his iPad, his new Thomas train track, the mini shopping cart that’s become an extra toy bin, and the talking Elmo that he’s rediscovering after being terrified of it a year ago.

I think of how much love his little sister will bring come March, and how confused the little man will be when we bring her home.  I hope he becomes her mentor and protector, and shows her how to be silly.  I hope she ameliorates his temper and helps him focus.

And everyone is sleeping peacefully.  They’re warm and safe.  That’s all the birthday present I want or need.  Oh, and maybe this.  Or another one of these.

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