Tuesday, 8 November 2011
I have been 30 for a week.
There is less than nothing to report.
I survived the day.
And by survived I mean survived.
Pop was lovely in the morning. She made me a card
(that said "ha ha ha ha ha ha ha you are old" on the front)
and sorted out the morning coffee.
She also wrote me a lovely letter.
The rest of the day (to be polite) went to hell in a handbasket.
Confirming my theory that birthdays suck.
And they seem to suck worse every year.
The day was redeemed (and then some) by the most wonderful James.
He got me a pass to swim with him... and some dolphins!
How lucky are those dolphins!!! ;)
It's one of those 'bucket list' things I've wanted to do...
I can't wait!
And we went for dinner at a really mint smoke house restaurant
I try never to have expectations of a fun birthday experience (on the day) as I hate being disappointed.
There is a huge part of my brain that seems solely dedicated to hosting a really authentic pity party.
A sort of sad martyrdom existence I walk around with on the day.
An 'oh don't worry, we don't need to do anything' kind of feeling.
It's stupid. I know this, but I can't seem to 'help it'.... every year.
I was actually relieved to wake up on the 2nd and bask in the fact that I didn't have to deal with it being my birthday.
It's not about getting older. It never has been. It's more of a narcissistic complex, which by not informing anyone of, becomes a kind of self forfilling prophesy.
I can't believe I am even still typing.
At least I am writing.
And this stuff is really just for me....
I am hugely looking forward to swimming with the dolphins, and I will feel very special on the day.
I still have a wedding to plan, a life to alter and kids that need attention that sometimes I feel too drained (or just spiritually lacking) to attend too.
I used to love having a pinch of drama in my life...
But that was in my 20's.