Joyeux Anniversaire

So I turned 34 last week. My husband picked up on those heavy hints I'd been laying and got me this strawberry and chantilly cream cake. Never mind that I did have to remind him that my birthday was Friday and not Saturday.

Anyway, as I was telling my soul sister Mar-Mar who has the same birthday as me, we’re still on the “good” side of 35. And now even 35 still has a rather dynamic feel to it. Like when they talk about some young entrepreneur on TV, head of his or her company at 35. Granted, this is not my case. Far from it. I’m more like, 34 piddling around in a job that pays the bills and is not even close to my college degree. And really not sure how to turn things around in this country where people are generally happy (or at least counting themselves lucky) when they make 1000 euros a month for life.

Besides that it is a turning point year for me with the impending arrival (cross fingers, knock on wood, pray that all goes well) of baby. And I wonder if I’m really mature enough to be a mom, considering I still sleep with a stuffed animal myself. Or that my husband often encourages me in a nearly father-like tone to finish my plate and remarks that I eat my dessert more easily than my meat. Sometimes I practice being mom-like around the house. I say, “Baby (as in future toddler), now we can’t eat Nutella everyday, so don’t start crying.” The husband and I at least agree on this one crucial parenting point: we don’t want our child always eating sugary, fatty things for breakfast.

Another part of me is proud of my youthful-ness and wants to hang on to it. Like trying to listen to the “young” radio stations from time-to-time, or as long as I can stand it. Sometimes I discover new stuff and pat myself on the back for staying “in touch.” Other times I say things like my own mom does, along the lines of, what’s that CRAP? before quickly turning the channel.
I can’t deny that there is a widening gap between me and the average high schooler. I’m losing touch with their slang and start to turn my nose up at their fashions. Or I say cliché things like, gee, what are we going to do about that new generation? They’re just not serious/disciplined/motivated enough.

And I do have moments when I’m proud of my “old” memories, like a song that takes me back to childhood. I was recently belting out the lyrics to a Steve Miller Band song in the car and saying, that really was good music. I can just see myself inflicting old Justin Timberlake tunes on my child as she rolls her eyes at her mom’s retro taste. Serves me right for doing the same to my mom when she put on Joni Mitchell.

I guess I’ll hang on to 34 and try to enjoy it. It sounds better than the big 4-0.