I have a birthday coming up in a couple of weeks.
I used to really love my birthday. I'd look forward to it, relish it.
I'm not sure when the warm and fuzzy feelings toward the day of my birth, turned cold and un-fuzzy, but I would imagine it was after I turned t-h-i-r-t-y.
"Gimme a break," you may be thinking.
"Thirty is young, it's the new twenty."
Sadly though, I am inching closer to the big 4-0, rather than 3-0, which is slightly terrifying.
Drama aside, I don't really feel too much different than I did in my twenties.
I still think of myself as young, youthful, hip, even.
A couple of nights ago, Oscar, Sabrina, Chloe and I were watching Dancing with the Stars, Sabrina's favorite show (she's almost ten, what you would call a tween).
I am particularly hooked on Gilles Marini, the super hot Frenchman that is paired with Cheryl Burke.
I was watching him, uh, I mean them intently, and when they were finished dancing said,
"Wow, they rocked."
To which Sabrina replied, with a somewhat pitying look,
"Mom, no one says "rocked" anymore."
"Really?" I said, "No one says that anymore, since when?"
"Um, since like, forever," she said, just a little too smugly for my taste.
"Oh, well," I said "I still say that."
To which her response was an exaggerated eye roll.
"Oh my goodness," I thought to myself. "Maybe I am old, or worse, un-hip."
A familiar feeling of dread came over me, you know the one.
It's the one you get when some well meaning young lad bagging your groceries, calls you "Ma'am."
I guess I could just embrace my impending birthday, with grace and class.
Let my hair go gray, without a care in the world.
Say words like "Rock" and "Cool" and "Radical" with wild abandon, while my daughter cringes inwardly at her "old" mother.
I have to admit, though, that I secretly enjoy watching Sabrina get riled up, when I sing too loud, or say something she thinks is kooky and old lady-ish.
I am also too vain to not cover up my gray hair, which thanks to genetics (and probably some stress ie:kids) happens to be way more than I deserve for my age.
So for now, I will continue making appointments at the hair salon for my dye jobs, and try not to go ballistic when the perky cashier at Trader Joes, asks if I need help out with my groceries.