Today I am 57 years old.
That looks funny– 57 is old! I’m trying to remember how I felt about people who were 57 when I was, say, 20, and I can’t. I didn’t think about 57 when I was 20.
My birthday is #5 in a string of eleven holidays, birthdays, and miscellaneous family events that string from Thanksgiving to Easter. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year’s. Anniversary (30th this year). My birthday. Wei’s birthday. My brother-in-law’s birthday. Valentine’s Day.
It’s still not over at Valentine’s Day, but by the time February 14 rolls around I. Am. Done. with holidays.
Part of the problem is that I’m not a very sentimental person, so having to keep finding creative ways to express my love about once a week for freaking months is a challenge.
Where were we.
Right. Valentine’s Day, Sister-in-law’s birthday, son’s birthday, Easter. Celebrated twice (once for the western Christian side of the family and once for the Eastern Orthodox). Although frankly, we kinda dumped Easter about 15 years ago, since no one on either side of the family is religious. The only vestige of Easter that’s really left is the Greek Easter cookies, unless my mother-in-law suddenly remembers it’s Easter, which she does every few years.
Then, thank heaven, we get a whole month before my daughter’s birthday. I don’t complain about Mother’s Day, because by that time I haven’t had a gift in several months, and I start getting greedy. Which then guilts me into the Fathers Day gift.
And with that, the gift-giving, meal-making holidays are over for several months, giving me time to develop amnesia about January again.