I've recently come to appreciate why it matters that I've had another birthday.
To very little fanfare (which is precisely how I like it) I "celebrated" another birthday last week. The morning show crew bought Susan and me a cake, and promised not to mention our shared birthday on the air.
It's not that I care that people know, or even know how old I am. I'm 35. Big deal. For me, I just don't need a whole morning of, "It's your birthday? Wow. Happy birthday! What are you doing? Are you having a party?"
No. I'm not having a party. I'm not doing anything. It's no big deal.
I did realize over the weekend, exactly what it means to have had another birthday. After two days of painting the living room and dining room, I'm sore all over. Seriously? I hurt after painting? I understand I'm going to be a bit sore after running... if I go a second round of golf... if I play softball or tennis... but painting hurts when you're old?
emails: vvitrano@todaystmj4.com
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