I go to the gym five days a week. Most weeks. Some weeks I drop a day and I only make it in four times. Compared to my exercising history, which consisted of a three year membership about ten years ago where I went maybe four times a year, I've been really committed. Every single time I go in, I work out on at least two digitized cardio machines. And every single time I get on one of those machines, I have to punch in my age so it can calculate what my heart rate should be for maximum effect.
I've been typing in 35 for 365 days now. That works out to at least 400 times in the last year that I have been reminded of my age.
Today, I begin typing in a new number. Today, I am 36. Thirty-six. THREE SIX. Honestly, I know that in the grand scheme of things, 36 is not old. I'm not worried about aging. It is what it is. But it is an age that I always saw as grown up. And while I am the married mother of one, I feel anything but grown up. In fact, most of the time, I feel only marginally more prepared to deal with the poop that life's monkeys throw at me than I did when I was 15.
Tonight, I will celebrate my birthday with margaritas and some of the best guacamole Baltimore has to offer. I will laugh and gossip and whine with my girlfriends just like I did when I was 15.
Because, really, who wants to grow up anyway?
Happy Birthday to me
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