Happy Birthday to Me.

Today is my birthday. That’s right, on this day, September 8, 1967, I was born. Did you do the math? That makes me 43 today. The big 4-3. Of course my youngest constantly wants to make me older, so it was a good reminder to her that I was in fact only 43. Then I had a nice Facebook post from a friend that reminded me I was the ‘baby’ of our group. So I guess in some circles I am still the younger one. Whew!

My mother likes to tell the story of the night I was born. Apparently, she and my Dad hosted a party that night. My mom relays that she was in labor all day and thru-out the party. Being my mother (and one who would never want to bother anyone) she never said anything, waited for the guests to leave, DID THE DISHES, then told my Dad they needed to go to the hospital. The details go on to reveal that her doctor showed up just in time, but he too had been at a party and ‘had alcohol on his breath’. Somehow it seems to fit, that the OB that brought me into this world had to get a little liquored up for the grand event. Then of course there is the detail that I was born at 11:58 pm, 2 minutes before my paternal grandfather’s birthday. Apparently Grandpa Purdy was none too happy with mom for not holding out the last 2 minutes. There was even delivery room talk amongst the hospital staff that maybe they should just cheat a little and say that I was born at 12:01 am on September 9. My mom didn’t think that would be right, so my birth was recorded correctly as 11:58 pm on September 8, 1967.

I was the third of four children who would all find themselves maladjusted in one way or another as we left home and entered adulthood. Some of those things still creep up. For example, this morning when I finished doing my hair with the straightener, I looked in the mirror and said to myself, hmmmmm, mom would say that it looked like I just brushed my hair with a stick. This was a oft spoken comment of hers if I ever wanted to wear my hair straight and not in a mass of hard-roller infused curls. I think I still must have indents in my skull from those darn hard plastic rollers. Don’t even get me started on the home permanents. That chemical smell still gives me shivers.

As I turn 43, I have to take inventory. I have more aches and pains than I ever dreamed a 43 year old could have. Last night I had cortisone injections in both feet because of recurrent bursitis. Silly me, I always thought that bursitis was for people in the rest home. When they took my blood pressure, they informed me that it seems to be creeping up a little too much these days. Ah yes, another family inherited trait...thanks Mom and Dad! Then of course there is the cholesterol issues that require medication, and the bouts of tendinitis that seem to come more frequently and last longer. My favorite is when I complain of something to my doctor and he informs me, ‘well you are getting older’. Awesome Doc, that helps me a lot. So, the lesson in all of that is to apparently buy stock in companies that make ibuprofen because I am pretty sure I will be on a constant drip of the stuff before I am 53.

The inventory also includes good things. My marriage of 22 ½ years is one of the top things. We still enjoy just hanging out together, even if that means long periods of silence. Some may say that is boring, I think it is comforting. The kids. I look at some that are my age (or a little younger) who are chasing toddlers and while there are days that I may miss that, I am thoroughly enjoying the adults that our kids have become/are becoming. Josh leaves in a couple of weeks for his junior year of college. Kirsten just started her senior year of high school and is beginning to plan for her college years. Then Annika is finishing up junior high this year and is slowly becoming stronger and more independent. All in all, pretty good, pretty good indeed.

I guess turning 43 isn’t so bad. It could be worse, I could be turning 50 today. I KNOW I’m not ready for that yet.