My very first birthday was awesome . . . if it wasn't for that day I wouldn't be here today. My life was almost short-lived. When I was six months old I was hospitalized for spinal meningitis and almost died. Thankfully the only lasting consequences of my sickness was total deafness in my left ear and a diminished sense of smell in my left nostril. I don’t consider either of these things detriments . . . the deafness me be one of the greatest gifts of all time. Why you ask? Because I can bury my good ear in my pillow at night and not hear a bloomin’ thing! You can’t tell me that doesn’t rock! As for the reduced sense of smell . . . let’s just say if there’s something stinky I can close off my right nostril and breathe blissfully away. How cool am I?? HA! My sense of balance is somewhat impaired which makes me a bit clumsy but that only adds to my personality. Right, hunny?
Anyhoo . . . when I was a kid we got to go out to dinner for our birthday. This was a big deal . . . we rarely went out to a restaurant to eat. I always picked the Red Bull Inn . . . a small chain of restaurants in
. . . with it’s dark dining room, buxom waitresses and buttery lobster. I was more interested in the lobster pot than the waitresses. Pennsylvania
Then off to Alaskaland for ice cream after where they would serve a huge ice cream sundae with a flame burning on top by the wait staff singing a rousting rendition of Happy Birthday.
On of my most memorable birthdays was my thirteenth. That birthday I got to plan a party and invite a bunch of friends. I decided on a roller-skating party at Sir Skate . . . flashing disco lights, rocking music and Pac Man game consoles . . . all on wheels!! Roller skating was big then and Pac Man was all the rage. Way fun . . . the best party ever!!
When I turned 21 my sister took me out for my first legal drink . . . we went to a bar and had lemon drop shots . . . Absolut vodka with a sugar dipped lemon wedge on the side . . . yums. Ah . . . sibling bonding . . . intoxicating!
On my 25th birthday I got myself a tattoo . . . a decision I have never regretted but boy it could have been sooooooooo bad. I had been thinking aobut getting a tattoo for sometime . . . I had some ideas about what I wanted but nothing definitive. That day I decided I was going to get the tattoo . . . and that was that. I went to a tattoo artist without an appointment . . . at least I was smart enough to pick someone with a good reputation. He had some time so he agreed. I decided on the design but before he could get started I had to take off my shirt . . . or so he said . . . so I did. For a 25 year old me . . . that was a huge deal, but I did it. He complimented me on my perky young ta-ta’s and he went to work. He did nice work and I’m happy with the tat on my teet.
I don’t remember my thirtieth birthday . . . that’s because I got sh!tfaced. And, that’s all I know about that.
My fortieth was not a big deal . . . I’m not obsessed by my age. I feel good and I’m happy and that’s all that really matters.
But from my mid-thirties on I get a new (or gently used) gun for my birthday . . . I love to shoot and having something new to plink with is always a good thing. Besides . . . in my marriage there is a clearly defined balance of power . . . I must have more firepower than he does. I tell him it’s so I can keep him in line but its just cuz I know that the one with the most toys when they die wins!
happy birthday, hunny!ReplyDelete