Today I turned 41. Which I suppose means that, between the passing of another year and getting engaged for the first time EVER, my inner 11-year-old boy has probably matured to … 12? Call me a late bloomer.
I (we?) thoroughly enjoyed the night’s festivities. No drinking. No debauchery. Just one spring snowstorm, Grammy’s BBQ ribs, cake, and THIS.
Best. Birthday. Present. EVAH. My family, they know the way to my heart. It’s called, “As Seen On TV!” and there’s nothin’ better. (I’m totally dismissing the less attractive reasoning for the gift which leans more toward something like, “Mommy’s getting oooold and growing hair in funny places …”)
I have high hopes. This weekend, I’m fully expecting my legs to be as smooth as an Olympic swimmer’s. Or Lance Armstrong’s. Or any of those guys who regularly shave their body parts. Which I find curiously hot, in a metrosexual-type way, but I digress.
As for the absence of celebratory drink, I MAY get guilted into partaking tomorrow night — Queen Bee, she shares the day with me, and she’s tenacious. And in the interest of full disclosure, I suppose I shouldn’t tell you the hair removal device was the best birthday present EVAH, when I haven’t told you what The Boy gave me.
Which I’m not going to do.
12-Year-Old Boy yelling over my shoulder: Remember, the Boy’s a woodworker!
You’ll have to use your imagination.
12-Year-Old Boy jumping and waving behind me: A WOODWORKER! Get it?? WOOD?!?
Yeah, not gonna tell.
♫ Happy birthday to me … ♫