Happy Ides of March, everyone!
Since we’ve last talked, a very dreadful thing has happened: my age-odometer flipped to a new zero. That’s right, I am now 30. Which means I’m close to 40. Which means that 50 is right around the corner. After 50, I’m fine, because you basically get to start over and be just as fabulous as you were at 25. It’s the decades in between that comprise the “getting old” years. I realize that most people treat the “0″ birthdays as momentous occasions, perfect for taking stock of their lives and plotting ahead for the future, but that’s just not my style. Honestly, any plans I make on traditional plan-making days are doomed from their inception. New Year’s resolutions, birthday wishes, and post-Halloween candy regrets never lead to anything productive. If anything, the promises I make to myself on these days are almost guaranteed to be broken. Maybe I just can’t stand the conformity. Perhaps I dislike feeling as though I “must” make resolutions, wishes, and declarations. Or, more likely, I’m lazy and stubborn and need more motivation than a simple calendar number to make me do something.
Sounds about right.
Now that I think about it, Caesar and I may have been kindred spirits. After all, he didn’t much cotton to being told to be superduper extra careful on the 15th of March, and look where it got him. Perhaps if he’d been told, “Trust everyone and be joyous this Ides of March,” he would have been defiantly wary, and Brutus wouldn’t have stood a chance.
That being the case, let me make a few belated, mandatory birthday wishes: I hope to gain ten pounds, NOT write a best-seller, and never taste chocolate again.
Hmmm…I feel the need to rebel already…
Cute.