Oh January. Such a cold, blustery, somber month you are, at least in some parts of the world. And really the only part of the world that matters to my easily chilled fingers and toes is the one I'm living in . . . so, cold and blustery it is.
However, despite the chill that accompanies dear janvier, and the slightly depressing after effects of the holidays being done and over, January has always been my favorite month. Birthday months have a way of garnering that honor. So in years past, I became ever so talented at ignoring the drab winter weather, at least until February 1st.
What ice? I see no ice. Emptiness? I see no barren space where the Christmas tree used to be. Sulking? I see no need to wish for summer.
I see only birthday candles, presents, people showering me with attention and smiles. I see only a day with my name written ALL over it.
But this year is different. This year I am well aware of the three inches of snow that have turned into crusted over ice. It glares at me when I look outside, and threatens me when I open the front door.
The blast of wintery wind hits my face and I curse this forsaken month. I pack up the last Christmas ornament and I'm moody the rest of the day. January has lost it's magic.
And it's not because I'm hormonal. How dare you! No, I'm near positive it's because I'm old. This month I officially become an old fart, and I join all you other old farts who have left your twenties behind.
I'm not entirely sure why I'm having such a hard time with it. This sort of thing (aging) happens to people everyday. Some people are even leaving their thirties, forties, fifties, gasp, sixties . . . seventies! behind. And in some cases eighties, nineties, and one hundreds are being reached. 'Tis true. I read about it on the internets and heard it through the grapevine.
Nevertheless, my measly thirty has got me down in the rotten dumps. Maybe because when I was a kid I remembered when my mom turned thirty, and I thought she was the oldest thing in the world next to my grandma, and the invention of trains, and dirt. Sorry Mother Loops. That was an exaggeration, for comical purposes.
But now please tell me why even email spammers know it's my birthday, and they act all happy for me, and they want to give me free unnecessary things and exclamation points!!! If this was my 23rd year I might be a little flattered. I generally love offers for discounted cable and Viagra. But this year I'm just not as receptive, or gracious.
And why are people staring like they know the number that is now attached to me for the next year? Do I have a dopey deer-in-headlights look on my face and a big 3-0 written on my forehead with bright red lipstick, that looks slightly misshapen due to the wrinkles?
I don't really want to be one of those people who feels the need to lie about her age. It's just a dang number. Right? Usually accompanied with bodily evidence.
So I've got two weeks to get an attitude adjustment, or this will be a dreary birthday indeed. Plus Oprah might just hunt me down and tell me thirty is the new ten. And let's be honest, Oprah is a little scary. So are ten-year olds.