Today is my birthday. Yiiipeeee!!!! No seriously, whoo-hooo!! At 28, I may be equipped with a jet-powered sled that will send me speeding down the slippery-slope to hagsville faster than you can say saddlebags - but I'm no pouter, dammit.
If my youth is visibly shrivelling into a brown, sad little raisin, then I'm going to be one of these fucking raisins. (I still can't believe they had their own cartoon. Total shit much?)
I'm not going to obsess over my present-and-future-sagginess. Nay, sir. Not yet.
I'll wait until 40 before certifying that the consistency of my thighs is slowly morphing into a ziplock baggie full of jello.
I'll hold off until 50 before poking my ass to compare it's firmness against that of a marshmellow.
At 60, I'll see how many tennis balls I can lose in the folds of my unseemly belly.
But for now, I'm not pulling my eyes up or out or any which way to hide wrinkles that will eventually make my face look like a shar-pei's turd-pump. Birthdays are not just about aging.
...Ok, so they're mostly about aging.
Of course I see more laugh lines & cellulite. I think the Vag police would confiscate my box if I didn't. But unlike nearly everyone I know, I'm boldly looking thirty straight in the eyes. We're having a staring contest and I'm going to beat thirty's ass, I tell you. If I had a cock, I'd tell thirty to suck it.
Everyone has their own way of celebrating or not. I hear you in the back, you & your "Yeah yeah, blah blah. You're in your TWENTIES whore. Your tune will change in ten years you perky-breasted bitch."
But for the moment, my birthday is fantabulous. My birthday is better than brioche. My birthday is a party in your pants.