Thursday, November 14, 2013

From Sea to Snow: Turning 32 in Thirty Below

My recent birthday and the birth of my beautiful nephew has caused me to not only re-evaluate the status of my intact uterus but my social demographic standing as well. I'm still on the fence about having a child, or rather, sticking my head through the slats of said fence, peeping over to a land full of bleary eyes and blissful bellies while fruitlessly attempting to retract myself as slivers dig into my all-too fleshy neck, reminding me why I should have never dared to leave my kid-free corner of kitty cuddling and Cabernet-drenched couple's nights. Twin sister is already an amazing mother, and I do believe that the little monkey is going to be sufficient enough to fulfill whatever motherly yearnings that are lurking somewhere between my heart and hiatal hernia. Plus, I threw my $500 glasses in the same pocket of my purse as a nail file and I almost drank a bottle of rubbing alcohol on accident, so I really can't be expected to take care of a living human being at this point.

As for the social demographic aspect of turning 32, I can honestly say it was a mixture of "Damn, it's only been three weeks and I have to dye my hair again because I'm not nearly hip enough to pull off a gray streak" and "Oh. It's my birthday. I just bought a treadmill, but moving it up the stairs was really hard work. So..." BTW, I've used it twice. And my birthday was ten days ago. But it was like, A LOT of stairs.

Anyway, the first thought I had the morning of my birthday wasn't a grand self-inquisition of "Do I feel older? Am I where I wanted to be when I turned this particularly bland age? Should I get facial hair removal?" First of all, I live in MINNESOTA. If you know any 20 year-olds who dream of living in the upper forty of the Midwest by the time they turn 32, they're either aspiring ice fishermen or they've been home schooled. (don't ask why, I just know). And yes, I do feel older, but facial hair removal is expensive and I'd rather fly to Hawaii with a pair of tweezers in my purse. Hidden inside a lipstick tube, of course, no one's aiming for the no-fly list here. Plus, thankfully, in Minnesota, no one shaves or goes tanning, because too much skin exposure could lead to death via West Nile or frost bite.

The first thought I DID have when I woke up on my birthday was "Great. Now if I become the victim of a crime, I'll be described as a 'white female between the ages of 30 and 40' until they can notify my family." The only thing that made me feel even a fraction better about my new age was that I had successfully surpassed the preferred range of most serial killers. Until I hit forty anyway. And then there's the whole vat of mommy complex kids that yearn to play a game of Duck Hunt with middle-aged women who remind them of their mothers. But statistically I think I'm safe; I have short hair (nothing to grab), I'm a little on the chubby side* (harder to drag), I'm super loud (difficult to restrain quietly and annoying while in captivity), and I park at least eighty spaces from any large, unmarked vans.  But now that I feel safe, I could very well get snatched by a priest in a Prius. Good thing Husband is like Liam Neeson and can track down snot in a snowstorm. Plus he's a former Marine and a bona fide black belt. He does scream at the sight of a mouse though, so hopefully Father McDeranged O'Killagain won't have a moat of mice surrounding his parish of perverted possibilities. Although I don't imagine I'm really the type they would choose to be the poster-child of human trafficking. I would most likely be the one who pulls the cocaine cart from brothel to brothel, or strong-arms the German businessmen who come in looking to bargain.

Needless to say, I do feel completely comfortable having my adorable nephew fill future urges of the gaping void that is currently my womb, and my age has only spurred me to take up writing my blog again, and possibly go for a light jog on my new treadmill. (Which, by the way, is the only other place besides a hostage situation where five minutes feels like forever). Plus, my mom had twins when she was 35, so I figure I've got time to catch the baby fever.

Unless, of course, I get kidnapped before then.

*Ok, more than a little.

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