Today is my birthday. I’m not ashamed of my age (47), but I am a bit surprised at it. It’s like I woke up one day several years ago, looked in the mirror and though, damn, when did I get old?
My face is fat, my skin doesn’t have that youthful glow, and my eyes are hooded.
But I have to say, I’m very happy in my skin these days. I’ve started working out (going to 9Round – “get fit, not hit”), drinking more water. I journal more often. Buddhism and mindfulness are part of my daily routine. And my writing is, very slowly, becoming more authentic. The older I get, the less I worry about what people will think.
At one time, I thought my birthday deserved a celebration. Then, 12 years ago, I spent my birthday at my best friend’s visitation after she lost her battle with cancer, so I didn’t even want to acknowledge my birthday. And now? Now, I feel good. I’m in a good place. And am looking forward to celebrating my birthday with pizza, beer and the 2 hour season premiere of The Following.
Emergency! Engine 51! I swear, I woke up about 4 this morning on fire. (by the way – bonus points if you can tell me the name of either main character in Emergency). I couldn’t get the comforter off quick enough, and nearly tossed my Mini Schnauzer on the floor in my rush to uncover. My nightshirt was soaked, the sheets were soaked. Yick.
Then I laid awake. I should blog about this, I thought. Could I create a gif of someone hosing down a steaming woman with a firehose? Would there be copyright issues? Can I even find a little video like that? What the heck are gifs anyway, and why do we like them so much? (there are several options, as it turns out. Here’s one I found. Not at 4 am. I waited until the sun was up.)
But I digress . . .
Menopause sucks. Been going through it for about 6 years now. It’s got to get over soon, right? The night sweats are horrible, but at least the daily hot flashes have subsided a bit. There’s nothing quite as miserable as sitting at my desk in the office and suddenly feeling the inner furnace kick on. The heat spreads up my body and through my face. Folks walk past me and look at me oddly, then ask if I’m okay.
I’m Mr. Heatmeister. . .
One of these days, I’m going to jump up from my desk, twirl around on one foot, then break into song . . . “I’m Mrs. Heatmeister, I’m Mrs. Sun . . . ”