It was my birthday on Saturday.
I am now at a terrible age.
It’s not necessarily because I’m over 29 and have yet to give Chris Meloni a booby-squishing hug, (although that certainly doesn’t help), or the fact that because of my candy-and-French-fry eating habits over the last 30-some years has made my body decide to rebel against me, but the main reason I am upset it because I am now stuck at an even number for the next 12 months.
I realize that any OCD readers out there may be appalled at the thought of someone actually WANTING to be an odd age instead of an even age, but hey, I’ve spent my years trying desperately to have attention on me. Anyhoo, I received a mailer that was meant to be filled out this week, and on it, there was an area that asked you to check a box for your age range. Instead of the usual 30-35 (which is disturbing enough that I fit into), I had to check the box that said 32-37. I know I shouldn’t say anything, because I’ll be there soon enough, but 37?! How did this happen? When did I end up being categorized with old farts?
Instead of dwelling on it, I decided to steal a line from Samantha in Sex and the City- “Welcome to my box.”
It’s a great place to visit, My Box is. It is filled with people who are (it is hoped) mature and won’t be caught dead in a Justin Bieber shirt. We are usually seasoned enough to know that not all marriages work out, and that rushing into things is not always a good idea. Sure, there are a few of us who are happily married, and even a few more who are romantic (?) enough to keep getting married again. (and again). Still, there are a couple of us that grow completely ill at the thought of ever again binding themselves to another human being for all of eternity.
In My Box, we are not ashamed to admit that we once listened to New Kids on the Block while playing Miami Vice in our basements as children. Some of us were absolutely enthralled with David Bowie as the Goblin King in The Labrynth, and will forever be looking for that perfect man who can pull off a spiky mullet while wearing leather junk-promoting leggings and a ruffly shirt. Here in My Box, we occasionally bebop to Backstreet Boys, and the GooGoo Dolls, or if in a fighting mood, Brandy and Monica’s The Boy is Mine. But to prove we don’t have completely hideous musical taste, we will admit that as children, we just wanted to grow up and grab our junk while singing “Heehoo!” in a funky falsetto exactly like our idol, Michael Jackson.
We were the ones who wore the massively baggy jeans that looked like jean skirts, unashamedly. The ones in My Box know about the clunky heels that were my first pair of grown-up shoes, and platform boots that were in every mall store that sold shoes- now only sold in Hot Topic.
We are the ones who are now populating the earth with new tiny beings who will grow up with the iphones and ipods fused to their hands, the ones who are giving way to the children who only have friends on Facebook, who are clearly evolving into birds that Tweet, and as we once said to our parents “what’s that?” when we found an old 8-track, our children will be confused and astounded when they find our old and antiquated VHS tapes buried in the back of some closet somewhere.
It’s not such a bad place, My Box, and I certainly don’t want to go on to the next Box.