So in several weeks, I turn 30.
I’m not happy about it.
In America, people are all, “Thirty is a big deal! What are you going to do?!?”
To put it bluntly, I’m going to turn 30.
Is it weird that I really, really don’t want to celebrate? I feel like that’s weird. But I’m just not a big birthday person. At least for myself. I kind of love other people’s birthdays. For the Nerd’s 30th, I got a big group of our friends to meet us at his favorite German restaurant where they wear lederhosen and sing obnoxious songs every time someone orders a beer. It was fabulous.
For Punkin’s 6th, I did a budget-savvy Fancy Nancy party. Everything was pink and frilly. I cut finger sandwiches into butterflies and hearts. The table was blinged out with pink chair covers and huge bouquets of fake roses. The girls all got goodie bags with sunglasses, necklaces, candy, and headbands.
But when it comes to mine, I kind of just want to lay in bed and watch back to back episodes of Monk. Even for my 16th, I wanted to order pizza with family and have ice cream cake. And that was perfect. Because I’m just not a big party girl.
The Nerd has been asking me what I want. The only thing I want right now is a house we can call our own. Other than that, I’m happy with not cooking dinner that night. With making my babies snuggle me. And maybe making the Nerd watch back to back episodes of Monk. While getting me ice cream cake.
It might not hurt to throw in some nicely wrapped anti-wrinkle cream at this point, either.