Tomorrow is my 34th birthday. It’s not old; it’s not young. It’s just a number. So why am I so damn depressed?
My age has never defined me — ask my mother, I think I was born a middle-aged woman. Growing up, I took care of my brother a lot, and in college, I took care of my friends a lot.
So being a “grown-up” isn’t my problem. Getting another year older in and of itself doesn’t really bother me either. And I’m sure on January 28, I’ll go on with my life, no happier or less happy now that I’ve graduated from 33 to 34.
But until then, I’m miserable. It happens every year. I can’t remember how long back this annual mini-depression goes, but at least since I turned 21 (because, let’s be honest, who didn’t count down the years, months, days and hours until they turned 21??), every year, I’ve gotten down on my birthday.
This year is no different. I snapped at DadJovi and E. all night. My head is pounding, my stomach hurts and I’m pretty sure I’m either having a heart attack or a partial anxiety attack. My chest feels like a small midget is permanently perched on top it. DadJovi even tried to cheer me up with an ice cream run after dinner, but that just put me in a worse mood because I knew it’d be that much longer until we got E. to bed.
I really don’t know what my problem is. I wish I didn’t get this bummed about my birthday. I’m certainly not looking for a pity party. I mean, for reals, 34 is nothing in the grand scheme of things. So I know it’s not an age thing.
Maybe it’s a timing thing. E.’s birthday is exactly two weeks after mine and DadJovi’s is exactly two weeks after hers. Three years ago, I was 94 months pregnant and in no mood to move, much less celebrate. The next year, I was in overdrive planning the perfect 1st birthday party. Last year, I knew we were taking it easy for E.’s but I still felt anxious. This year, I’ve somehow invited 19 2- and 3-year-olds to our house in two weeks for a pirate party (send help now!).
But I think four, five, six, etc years ago I was feeling this way, too, so I can’t even blame the birthday bonanza.
So, I’m just going to embrace the blues, allow myself to mope, wallow and whine, and on January 28, I’ll get back on with life.
Tell me: am I crazy? Am I the only one who feels this way? What are your tactics for turning your birthday frown (lines) upside down?