Hey, it’s my birthday!
I know, I know, you aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age. Well, guess what?
And I think being coy about your age is stupid.
I’ve earned all 37 of those years, damn it. Would I go back to being sixteen? Ugh, no way – I had enough adolescent angst to last me an entire lifetime, thank you very much.
What about twenty-nine, the age some people get stuck on for decades? Let’s see…at twenty-nine I was teaching business administration classes, something that holds very, very little interest for me, and living about a bajillion miles away from all my family and friends (I was in Washington state, if you’re keeping track). No thanks, I’m happier writing smut and teaching philosophy in Maine.
But (you say) wouldn’t you at least want your sixteen-year-old or twenty-nine-year old body back?
Well…maybe. But I’ve earned this body, too. And, funny thing is, my body is less lithe and a bit lumpier than it was ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago. But I’m more comfortable with it now than I was then. I spent my teens and early twenties whining about being fat.
Yeah, I could stand to lose 20 pounds. But I’m pretty healthy, I eat fairly well…and I don’t really give a fuck anymore.
Part of this is having a great husband who thinks I’m sexy no matter what I weigh. Part of this is also having a daughter and trying my damnedest to never, ever, ever mention weight or fat around her, because I want her to grow up thinking of her body in terms of health and strength, not beauty or dress size. And part of this is also realizing no one actually cares about the size of my thighs. (Seriously. No. One.)
So please, I’ll have the whipped cream on my full-fat mocha. And the biggest slice of chocolate cake you’ve got.
Ahhhh… being 37 is freaking awesome.
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