Birthday

I turned 38 on February 5th.

I don't feel 38. Somewhere inside me is the 20 year-old who did silly things like

- let 9th grade girls tease my hair on a mission trip

- rubbed sour cream and BBQ sauce on my face (along with a friend) and then drove around letting people *see* us like that

- challenged a friend to drink an entire half gallon of water (not knowing at the time about water toxicity) I won. She threw up. Good times.

- challenged another friend to put an entire roll of Bubble Tape in his mouth at one time. It's a wonder we didn't choke

I could go on and on. I am that fun, childish person inside this 38 year-old body. I'm the one who usually gets the kids in trouble at the dinner table. It's just fun to be funny. Gross and crude and funny. I'm the one who laughs when the kids fart and it reverberates against the wooden bench. Giggles cannot be contained.

And yet I am the one who owns four cats. I bought fleece house shoes today because my feet have started to get cold. I'm usually in my PJs by 6 pm if I have nowhere to go at night. And I usually don't. And I'm okay with that.

I don't wear heels anymore. They're not comfortable. Or sensible. Or necessary.

I prefer oatmeal over sugary cereal. Me - who used to love Fruity Pebbles. Now I need protein. And fiber. Oh, I need the fiber.

I eat yogurt topped with granola instead of ice cream topped with chocolate syrup.

I have started drinking coffee. Because it's warm, dang it. And I'm cold - remember?

I wear pants to bed. I used to hate pants, but remember - it's COLD.

I take antacids.

I ask the children to TURN DOWN THE RADIO.

Really? Turn it DOWN? Inconceivable.

I have started paying closer attention to the toilet paper I buy. And to how much calcium I consume in a day. Those things matter to us 38 year-olds.

Worse yet? I've started to realize, even admit, that my mother was right.

Yes, she was.

Man, I'm old. And sensible. But mostly old.