I have a birthday coming up at the end of the month. It’s the one that seems to send some women weeping into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Super Fudge Chunk ice cream. I’ll be 30 on June 27th. It wasn’t a big deal to me, though. Age is nothing but a number, or something else equally profoundly inane. I was fine with it. Until I held the following conversation with my mother:
Me: Do you know what’s coming up at the end of the month?
Mom: I don’t want to hear about it!
Me: You don’t want to hear about MY birthday?
Mom: Because it makes ME feel OLD!
This coming from a woman who could swear I was turning 28 this year. When I corrected her, she let out a louder than necessary gasp. “You’re gonna be 30?!” Really, Mom. Thank you.