Birthdays, ya’ gotta love ‘em … ya’ gotta hate them.
I mean, think about it. A five year old kid holds up five pudgy, candy grimed fingers, “I’m almost five,” he says proudly.
At that age, the next birthday is like the world to you. Then you start hitting really cool milestones, like first becoming a teen … then sixteen … twenty one … thirty and a half.
But somewhere along the line, we all … well, you, not me … stop adding to your age. You won’t see a middle-aged person bragging, “I’m almost forty.” Or, “next month I’ll be thirty-six!”
Instead, you start shaving years off your age, sometimes to ridiculous extents. I personally know two women who have celebrated … well, not exactly celebrated … their twenty-ninth birthdays more than once.
Where am I leading with all this?
Well, it’s because .. um … uh …
Hmmm … (drumming fingers)
Okay, fine, I don’t have a clue.
Big surprise, huh?
But I do want to tell you the most special birthday ever for me. I mean, forget my own hatching, er, development in a test tube, er, binary fusion … but the most special birthday wasn’t mine. It was my daughter.
But you have two daughters, you say.
Yep, and they were both the best birthday ever.
commercial break: my upcoming vampire humor Young Adult book Fang Face comes out September 1.
Just weeks away
… hee, hee, hee!
Come check it out http://www.fangface.homestead.com