I almost forgot to mention that it is my birthday next week. July 16th. I will be 27. Which all women of a certain age now know is the beginning of the end, fertility-wise.
Happy birthday to me.
My birthday is usually pretty stinky and depressing. Being in the middle of the summer, most people seem to be on vacation. And, being the modest person I am, I do not demand or organize any sort of celebration. So, it usually passes quietly, with a few cards and a few gifts and a nice dinner somewhere. Although, I feel strangely guilty about the gifts. Surely people have better things to spend their money on.
But, despite the guilt and malaise, I am grateful, and I treasure these tokens of thoughtfulness and friendship.
It is a strange feeling though, difficult to reconcile, wanting more and less at the same time.
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)"
[From Song of Myself by Walt Whitman]
Funny how writing about my birthday leads to quoting a Transcendentalist. But not really odd. Interconnectedness and all that. A too lofty ending, yet apt.
Posted by thevieve at July 11, 2002 12:48 PM