A couple of weeks ago I had a birthday.  My father always says getting older beats the alternative.  My mother consistently says she is grateful for every year she has. There is no room for feeling sorry for yourself about getting older in the family I was raised in.   I'm telling you this because I am also going to tell you that I don't like my birthday. I never really have, but since I turned thirty they are tougher and tougher for me to swallow each year.

So much so, in fact, that I push them out of my mind.  Way out of my mind, into the deep, dark corners.  The year I turned thirty six I thought I was turning thirty three. My husband, who is four days younger than me (all year long) had to set me straight on our actual age. Seriously, that is how hard I try to forget about my birthday.  After all, what difference does a number make ?  It is how you feel, how you look, how you are living each day that matters, isn't it ?

Well, this year things took a turn for the better the day after my birthday.  We were in our closet dressing and I asked my husband how he felt about turning forty eight in a couple of days.  He looked at me slightly baffled and said he had no idea, he wasn't thinking two years ahead.  TWO YEARS AHEAD ?  What was he saying ? 

Here I was thinking I'd turned forty eight, when in fact I had turned a mere forty six two days earlier. 

Hooray !  Two years younger ? Now that's my kind of birthday !