Today I’m 31 and the fact that I am now firmly in my 30s is somewhat softened by the fact that Katie Holmes finally gave birth yesterday/today and now I no longer have to hit “refresh” on Yahoo news every five seconds. And no, it’s not sad that I care about the tomkitten’s arrival—I am mostly relieved because it’s almost inhuman for a woman to be pregnant for that long and as someone who has never carried a child in her womb, it scared me to death to think that the experience could be so long and so ghastly to watch. Now it feels like things are somehow right with the universe again.
What I am most excited about is this. It’s my present to myself. A few days of me time, where I don’t have to think about the house or the cats or whether the mortgage got mailed, where I don’t have to deal with inconsiderate, self-absorbed people or Boston drivers, or feel like I have to yell in order to be treated with respect. As Chiz would say, it’s a few days of sweating and eating kale. And I can’t wait. It’ll be the first weekend trip I’ve taken in almost a year and I wish I could leave today.
Tonight I’m going out for drinks and dinner with some girlfriends. Bring on the martinis. Driving to work today, I listened to “Lady Marmalade” and decided it was time to be saucy again.