On Saturday Wolfdogg gave me shit about the fact that my birthday was less than seven days away and I had not been ceaselessly annoying about it. At all. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned it. I shrugged my shoulders.
“So what one is this?” he asked.
“Forty-two,” I said and took a sip of a delicious gin & tonic.
He laughed. “You just put that right out there without any hesitation.”
“Growing old is a privilege,” I said.
He and Atom looked at each other and then looked at me, shaking their heads in agreement.
“Well, it is.” I said. “I know a lot of people who didn’t get to be this old. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I can’t help it.”
“It beats the alternative,” Atom said.
“Exactly!” I screeched.
So today I am 42. The only thing that has really changed is that now my creep number is 28*, which means all you twenty-seven-year-olds who were looking to get with me will have to wait. Call me on your birthday and I’ll see if we can work something out.
I really don’t mind growing old or being considered old. I don’t mind the grey hair or the wrinkles around my eyes. In fact, it kind of pisses me off when people & my haircutter assume I color my hair because of the grey. I kind of like the grey. It’s my boring dark blonde hair color that I hate, and as grey as I’ve gotten of the past five years, it’s still more boring than it is grey. Anyway, I’ve been coloring my hair since I discovered the majesty of Sun-In back in 1984.
The strangest thing about being 42 (or 41, or even 40, I guess) is that when you talk about twenty years ago you’re now talking about stuff that happened in your twenties, when you were already a full-fledged adult, and not even the technically adult eighteen-year-old bullshit.
Speaking of eighteen-year-old bullshit, I officially graduated from high school 24 years ago today. Holy cow. My high school graduation is also a full-fledged adult.
So yeah, welcome 42, I hope you enjoy your stay.
*your creep number is allegedly the lowest age you can date without being a creep. According to something I read in a Kevin Brockmeier novel once upon a time ago, you calculate your creep number thusly: Your age divided by two, plus seven. So then for me, it’s: 28.
And speaking of creep factor, this weekend I discovered that Jaycie, my niece, and I both have a crush on Michael Cera. Sister #2 was horrified by this.
“What?” I asked. “I think he’s attractive.”
“He is adorable,” Jaycie agree.
“It’s fine if you like him,” Sister #2 said, pointing at Jaycie. “But that makes you a dirty old woman. What is he eighteen?”
“He’s legal,” I shouted (remember, I was drinking).
“Still gross,” she said.
“Is he closer to your age or mine?” Jaycie asked.
So then I had to head out to IMBD where I learned that Michael Cera’s birthday is the day after mine. Only he was born in 1988, the same year I got my driver’s license, which means that he falls well below my creep number.
“Does that mean I can have him?” Jaycie asked.
And one, glistening, gin-soaked tear slid down my cheek as I shook my head yes. Sometimes growing old is kind of a bitch.