Today, September Vogue finally came. I mean, I'll be honest. I consider myself somewhat intellectual, but I am like a friggin' 5-year old on crack when I find September Vogue in my mailbox. Because we live out in the boonies, we usually get the mail while driving the car (God forbid we walk the acreage to actually get the mail...the horror). So, when I grabbed it out of the mailbox today, I turned around to the backseat of the car, where my stepson was sitting, and I said, simply, "this is my bible."
After three years, I think he finally understands it. It used to be as if he was looking at an alien. Today, though, he looked at me as if to pat me on the head and say, "that's nice, stepmonster lady. That's nice."
This was my last weekend as a 36-year old. I am pensive. I'm freaking out a bit, even. I mean, I didn't mind 30 at all. Most people do, but I didn't. I was excited to turn 30, as if it would instantly give me both professional and personal credibility as a REAL adult. 31 was a little bit weird, but for the most part, I was still a spring chicken in my own right. 32 through 36 just flew by, largely in part to changing residences, men, jobs, and ways of my life. Fun years, but damn, they were slightly a blur of falling in love mixed with bloody heartache mixed with vodka mixed with friends, fun, U-Hauls, and the constant changes galore that my life seemed to bring me...just a huge tornado that seemed to land me in an Indiana cornfield with three dogs, two grown kids, and a husband.
37 does not excite me. I'm saying this out loud, as if to let everyone know that yes, it'll be grand if you wish me a happy birthday, we can eat some wings and drink some beer at my favorite south side white trash place, but then let's drop it, OK? This is a first, as I've always been a welcoming fan of birthdays. It's perplexing, as I can't seem to pinpoint the reason why.
I spoke to my best friend in Atlanta yesterday. "T" is my hippie-Democrat-tell-it-like-it-is, happy-go-lucky-but-don't-you-dare-fu*k-with-her friend. She's working on her doctorate in Psychology and has been doing private practice on the side for years now. I've been to several therapists. Most of my 4 readers know my stance on therapists (women only need two doctors: a good gynecologist and a good therapist). I truly believe in them. I'm hyperanalytical, so it appeals to that side of me and the fact that I just like to talk. I have no problem paying someone to listen to me gab. And, after seeing a big handful in my lifetime, T. is still the best damn therapist on the planet. She's brilliant and beautifully blunt with me, which I love. I've heard "Get your head out of your ass!" a few times, followed by, "So, yeah, that's your fault..." Equally, though, she's pointed out that I'm a classic codependent pleaser, even though I have this independent exterior about me. She has this amazing way of pointing out my flaws while simultaneously making me feel like I'm the hottest, most intelligent, fabulously stylish bitch in my age bracket. A true gift.
She was telling me how she got this gorgeous new convertible and a new motorcyle and took lessons and got this black and pink leather jacket and gloves and has a kickass helmet on order now. A adorable doctoral candidate that chooses to work in the school system full-time, counsels underprivileged children, does private practice part-time and has a hot convertible, a smokin' motorcycle, and about three men trying to date her simultaneously. My friends are cool.
She snapped me out of my "37" funk a bit, as her material goodies made me think that she's a year older than me and getting younger-in-spirit every year. She almost made me conjure up my Daisywriter standard, "what I want to do with my life this year" list. But, tonight, I'm going to think about it. Just ponder a bit on the precipice that is 37. That downhill slope to 40. I shall do what many do - turn to religion - as a comfort. For this particular milestone, I'll turn to my bible - the September Vogue. Just me and Ms. Larue on the couch for the night.
Countdown to the downhill slope. Someone please pass the vodka. :-)
