By Lisa Curry
This past Tuesday, October 9, was my birthday. My 44th birthday, to be precise.
The day was not helped in any way by my suffering both the flu and PMS.
Those double fours sound so squarely middle-aged.
And there’s this thing I have with my mother. If she were alive, she’d be 66. But instead, she was killed in a car accident by a drunk driver 17 years ago. So she’s forever 49.
I’m only 5 years younger than my mother.
I’m as close in age to my mother as I am to my only sibling, my 5-years-younger sister.
Now that’s freaky. No wonder I wanted to stick my head in the oven. (Alas, it’s electric.)
On the other hand, the flu passes, PMS passes, and you can’t freak out about your age forever.
For starters, I’m not the queen of healthy living, and I’ve seen firsthand what two of my grandparents were like in their late 80s. Therefore, I neither expect nor aspire to reach 88, so at 44, I’m probably already well past middle age. That takes some of the pressure off.
Second, 44 probably isn’t as bad as 45, 46, 47 or 48 will be. And I’m sure it isn’t as bad as my 49th birthday will be, because I fully expect my head to implode or something equally dire to occur that day. And that makes me normal, according to Hope Edelman, author of Motherless Daughters, who says that deep down inside, a lot of women find it impossible to imagine living longer than their mothers did. And normal’s good.
On that note, I’m feeling positively perky. I’ve got 5 good years left in me. Might as well enjoy them and not waste them moping!
How about you? Ever had a really bad birthday?