*Someone* is getting old

People who have the most birthdays live the longest.

- Jean Bucher

And by *someone,* I mean me. And by old, I mean, just a little old.

Here is something that I noticed about 8 years ago…I can’t remember how old I am. seriously. Even on my actual birthday, I have to really think. Thinking is not my favorite sport.

So, what I do on occasion is, remind myself that I am only one or two years younger than the coach. But the problem is, I can’t always remember how old he is either. I should write these things down.

But I have it correct today. Today I am 35 42. The coach is 37 43. But next month, he will be 44. See why this is hard for me? No? Ok, I just have issues with numbers. But anyhoo, happy birthday to me.

I would like to take this special occasion to thank my Mom for going through with the whole birthing part. That is not fun. And I don’t care if you were on speed and smoked a carton pack of cigarettes while in labor. *cough cough* That is how they did things back then.

But really Mom, thank you not leaving me on the stoop of a church. Well, actually the stoop of a church would have been ok, had it been in a nice neighborhood I would have had a 50/50 chance of having a normal family. Whereas the family I got was surely dysfunctional perfectly wonderful . Now, If you had left me by the back door of Millers Super Value Grocery store I could have been a tragic mess, instead of the perfectly crazy silly person I am today.

Thanks Mom for keeping me. I heart you. It took a lot of courage on your part, and look at your constant reward: Me.

Oh, and as an afterthought, who’s idea was it for us to pose in front of the crazy curtains with our printed dresses? This is so wrong…