It’s here again. Another year ’round this star, out here in the inky blackness. Thirty-eight spins, one arm on the wheel, the other hanging out the window. Feels…ok.
I don’t feel old (except when I get up from sitting for a long time, thankyouverymuch creaky joints, I’m fully aware I haven’t been to the gym in six months). I don’t feel particularly young either. I feel very middle aged, and lately have been flirting with a midlife crisis more often than I’m comfortable admitting. So in honor of turning
21 with experience 38, a wish. Or several.
I wish A’s year calms down and the interventions we’re putting into place help him soar, not serve as a crutch. I hope the meeting today with the district’s elementary GT coordinator and school social worker brings direction.
I wish for a new iPhone, as my current one is slowly dying on me. It’s a grumpy old man and doesn’t like that I’m a young, vibrant, delicate flower. So he crashes and acts up and slows down and tries to bring me to his grumpapalooza.
I wish and hope and pray and cross fingers that the job I interviewed for yesterday afternoon pans out. I will say no more, for reasons ranging from privacy to jinxing, but it would truly be a birthday gift to hear something today.
I wish the
idjits folks over at Facebook would quit farking with the layout already. And while they’re at it, they can get the hell off my lawn, too. Ah. My age is…showing its age.
I wish for…a lessening of the chaos. At 138% chaos here on any given day, I’d give part of my liver (it grows back!) to see 83.875% chaos more often.
I wish and hope and pray and cross fingers that there no more surprises with this house. Yesterday the duct cleaning crew discovered a baseball in the furnace…that had been there for at least five years, based on the kid’s autograph and my knowledge of previous owners. I have no desire to discover the home was built on an old Indian graveyard 45 years ago. We have enough crap to deal with without the television eating my children. And for the record, I hate clowns.
And I wish, selfishly…very very selfishly, for a day all about me. Where I am the center of loving attention, not because I requested it, but simply because it’s my day. Because we’re traveling this afternoon to see family for the weekend, there will be no birthday dinner, no birthday cake, and no birthday celebration. While I’m pretty much ok with that (it’s not an age that ends in “zero”) it’s still kinda sad that adults don’t celebrate their birthdays with the same boundless joy a child does.
Happy birthday to me.
And a happy autumnal equinox to everyone else.