Today is one of those days of imbalance. It's my birthday. My forty-fifth birthday. An odd number. I hate it.
I've always been bothered by the odd numbered birthdays. I can remember feeling so old on my 29th birthday, but loving life on my 30th.
Now it's official, though. I'm old. I'm closer to fifty than I am to forty. I can't think of anything pleasing about being 45 years old. Oh...well, one thing. I guess it's better than being dead.
I work out and try to eat right, but for what? I'm old. No one cares what I look like. Ain't nobody looking twice at a 45 year old woman. Except for Ashton Kutcher. But Demi Moore is a freak of nature with a gazillion dollars to invest in plastic surgery. I don't like her very much.
Although I spend more time at the gym than with my family, I still look like a frumpy, old lady. My body has morphed into something I barely recognize anymore. I could live on twigs and berries, and still not have the body that I took for granted (and thought was fat) when I was 21 years old.
What sucks even more is that 45 is still too young to just say "Screw it! I'm trading in my Victoria's Secret for a moumou and some bloomers." I can't retire and walk the mall every day!
Crap, crap, crap! Blah, blah, blah...whaaa, whaaa, whaaa!
I'm going to quit crying now. Suffice it to say that I don't like being forty-five very much.
These made me laugh, though.
