I’m turning 40 and I don’t take fucking bullshit anymore.
Pause.
I only swear when I’m out of the house.
Pause.
But when I’m out of the house, I can’t keep it in.
birthdays
I secretly think that the universe might be extra revealing to a girl around her birthday
Leaving work this afternoon, on the eve of my 32nd birthday, I thought I should start looking for signs. You know, like omens. I do this every year on my birthday because even though I know it’s stupid, I secretly think that the universe might be extra revealing to a girl around her birthday. At least it can’t hurt to keep your eyes peeled, is all I’m saying.
The city was carpeted by low-hanging fog. Fog in January! The snow has all melted so it kind of looks like spring, the yucky early weeks of spring where the snow melts to unveil garbage and waterlogged leaves and all sorts of ugliness. Except at least in the springtime, it’s actually, you know, spring.
As I headed toward the subway station, I could hear someone playing a saxophone. The musician was quite talented but I could not see him/her, given the fog and the crowds of commuters. It was one of those slow mournful kind of saxophone songs. It seemed familiar but I couldn’t place it. Anyway, it matched the fog.
“This is not a good sign,” I said to myself. “It will be difficult to spin this in a way that accords at all with my image of what the universe should be saying to me on the eve of my 32nd birthday.”
As I opened the door to the station I was debating whether it was best to accept that the year ahead was bound to be foggy and mournful, symbolized by a lone saxophonist in a crowd of people who just want to get home, or to abandon entirely my whole system of looking for signs, deciding instead that the year ahead will be rational, sensible, and totally ungoverned by the unseen.
But lo! I realized with a jolt that I did recognize the song. It was Blondie’s The Tide is High! It’s just that it was practically unrecognizable, you know, due to the mournfulness and such. “I’m not the kind of girl who gives up just like that,” Debbie Harry informs us calmly. “Oh no!” This is one of the earliest pop songs I remember because I used to dance around to it at my neighbour’s house, where we listened to it on 8-Track. It is still a favorite and is already programmed into the iPod for Saturday’s big bash.
So clearly, not only is this meant to be my theme song for the new year, it was being played in such a cryptic and nearly-unrecognizable format because it was meant as a sign that only I would recognize. Duh.
The tide is high, but I’m holding on.
A girl has to make her own milestones in this life
Chicklets, I must start with a disclaimer. Remember how this blog is not about me? Because that would be boring and vain and excruciating? Well, you must grant me an exception in the coming weeks, because I am about to turn 32. And I have been waiting to turn 32 as long as I can remember.
I like to blame/credit fashion magazines. I read them as a preteen. If you are familiar with fashion mags, you will know what I am calling the “woman on the street” feature, usually near the front. They hit the street and they ask “normal” women a question. Could be, “what is the one cosmetic you’d have to have, even if stranded on a desert island?” Could be, “if someone cheats once and is truly sorry, should you give them another chance?”
In my mind the women who answered these questions were always total glamazons with fascinating jobs. They were fashion editors, investment bankers, and chefs. And they were always 32!
Q. What is the desert island cosmetic you cannot live without?
A. “Mascara. Everything else is dispensable, but pale lashes are to be avoided at all costs!” –Samantha, 32, stylist.
Wow!, thought my 12-year-old self. When I’m 32, I’m going to have my shit together. I am going to be a world famous astronomer/writer and live in a castle with my adoring boyfriend who also happens to be the president of France and we will have 12 adopted orphans. And I will NEVER have pale lashes.
Well, Chicklets, I’ve decided that a girl has to make her own milestones in this life. Twenty-one was uneventful. I didn’t mind turning 30. So 32 is coming up, and I don’t live in a castle, and Mr. Mock is an urban planner instead of the president of France. But he speaks French! And I’m not an astronomer (too much math, it turns out) but I am a writer, if not of the famous variety. And I’ll pass on the 12 orphans, but that’s my prerogative. Because I’m soon to be 32!
I’m an antisocial sort, and I can’t think when I last threw a party. Maybe never, unless you count having your girlfriends over for bad movies and fancy drinks. But I’ve decided to throw myself a big old party. And I’m sorry to say that even though this blog is not supposed to be about me, you’re going to be hearing a lot about my 32nd birthday party in the coming weeks.