39.9999
In what is going down as the worst birthday ever, the “why” is apparent. It’s that 40 is starting off just as boring as the entirety of 39 was. And, if I’m being honest, my entire 30s.
The birthday is tomorrow but the depression arrived in my beaten-up beloved Samantha, who the (hot) mechanic finally told me can no longer be fixed.
I had Grand Plans for this weekend. Trips, restaurants, sightseeing, you name it. Starting off a new decade so busy and happy, I wouldn’t notice it.
Alas, here I sit in the house with nothing to do. Since I’m not traveling, I have to do this locally. Which, fine, it’s Florida. But Mom is so sick, she’s shot down Every Road Trip Idea.
So fine, it’s mah birfday. I should fill the weekend with all the things I love to do locally, right? (That would fill an hour, but still. Dream with me.)
Nope, she knows she looks sickly and refuses to go to any of the places where she would be “seen.” Which, is all of them.
So finally I said fine, you want to go to a craft show. (I hate crafts.) She said it’s my birthday but YEAH let’s go to the craft show.
I know I am being whiny and impossible right now. I figure Mom’s been so sick, it could be the last birthday I spend with her.
And the more-evolved version of my Higher Self knows that I don’t have to have a Big Story about what I did this weekend for the people who couldn’t be arsed to even wish me a happy birthday before or on the actual day.
But still. I spent the last 10 years a slave to my job and my mom’s health. Why can’t I have one good long weekend where my beauty and youth and my very soul isn’t being stripped away by the needs of someone else?