Everett asked me today: “When is your birthday, Mom?” And I had to think about it for a minute, because my birthday countdown is occluded by homeschooling and a research paper and, generally, Managing.
So I thought for a minute, and I told him: “In five days.”
He said, “Five days?” chocolate eyes wide.
And I said, “Yes.”
And he said, “Aren’t you excited?”
And I said, apologetically, that I wasn’t really excited, that I hadn’t given it much thought. And I thought to myself that I think with more anticipation of my children’s birthdays than I do of my own. Does this mean I’m a grown-up?
I’m going to be 36 in five days. Thirty-six. In five (5) days.
Thirty-six is the Age of Elegance. The age when one is finally (finally) Grown Up. It is the age that the young heroine of du Maurier’s Rebecca pines for. The age when you can wear black satin and pearls and not be thought to be putting on airs.
I have looked forward to this.
But I have a giant pimple– red, noticeable, hideous– just to the right of my chin. And when I say “giant,” I am talking Huge. Bigger than I have had in recent memory. Definitely Larger than the pimple you wore to your junior prom.
Question: Do black satin and pearls go with pimples?
