When you're little, every birthday is a big one. But as you grow up, it's ok to let them get small. I have mixed feelings about how midlife birthdays, once easily waved at as they passed quietly by, have spun so far out of control, thanks to Facebook alerts. I think I have reached an age at which I am content to observe the date — or even overlook it.
It wasn't like that. At 4, I'll be all excited, looking forward to a new dress from mum, presents from the aunties, uncles and perhaps a red packet from grandpops. At 10, I couldn't wait to turn 12, thinking I'm "all grown up" and could take a bus on my own. At 16, I couldn't wait to turn 18, where I could legally enter a pub and dance the night away. And dance I sure did - all the way through to 24 (or thereabouts). And then the numbers just kept adding up. Before I know it, the big 3-0 came and before I could count the achievements, here I am, at 35, counting wrinkles.
Having said all that, what I find I'm most grateful for, nestled so deeply here in middle age, is simply being healthy and able to enjoy a sumptuous meal with the boyfriend, and know that I've got some pretty good friends to walk the rest of the journey through to my 40s, 50s, 60s...
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