With my birthday rapidly approaching (have I mentioned that before? That it's in a mere SIX days?!!?), I have a confession to make: despite my constant need to celebrate and make a big deal about it, in truth I get really depressed around my birthday...and, lucky me, it seems the depression has already settled in.
I don't know what there is to be sad about - I've got a good life and I have nothing to complain about.
But, still, 39 is the end of my '30s and the beginning of....what? Downhill? Black balloons? Age-related jokes? A barren womb? Oh, wait. Crap. Where did that come from?
I know, I should be celebrating that I'm alive and healthy and out of Immigration Jail. And I am. But, I'm also A L O N E. And while I'm normally pretty fine with it, it's the holidays and events that really make me aware of my status: I am alone. And never more so than when it's my birthday.
I know what you're thinking: blah blah blah, stop blubbering you big baby. You're probably right.
Although, just so you know, it's not big baby. It's big OLD baby to you.
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