Hark! Is that old age, I hear?
Amazingly enough, around this time of year--every year--I turn a year older. I call it a "birthday" because it's the anniversary of the day of my birth.
Pretty clever, right?
Right.
I'll be 33 in a few short, wrinkly, creaky-jointed days. What do old people do to celebrate their birthdays? I'm not sure, but it probably involves facials and peels and botox.
Not for me, of course, because I'll ALWAYS look youthful. But for other people, they're totally up on that injectable botulism and dubious "fillers." I'm still holding strong with my crunchy, all-natural face care stuff.
Except this morning I used one of my favorite old philosophy products and I'm like, yeah--some chemicals are totally worth it. Which makes me think, well, if this chemical is okay, another one would probably smooth away these fine lines. And another one would probably plump up the skin here. And I probably should just go dunk my head in a barrel of chemical treatments and see how great my skin looks after.
And then I look up those products online and remember, oh yeah, all the monies are required for smooth, wrinkle-free skin. A quick mental check of our finances and I recall that, No. I do not have all of the monies to blow on skincare anymore. And then I'm back to my crunchy, all-natural routine (but I'll probably keep the one product I used this morning--it's too magical to do without).
With that wordy and rather pointless ramble about the shocking fact that I shant be botoxing my face for my birthday, that begs the question: what will this particular old(ish) gal do for her birthday?
Well, now that you mention it, the celebration has actually already begun. After church this weekend, my parents, sister, and gifted niece (oh--did I mention? My sweet, adorable, silly niece is in the gifted program. THERE'S A GENIUS IN OUR FAMILY.) joined us at our house for some burgers, cupcakes made by my mommy (they taste like childhood and frosting), and some sparkling conversation. I got a portable steamer (no lie--I'm so happy about this one) and a Yeti mug from my parents. Apparently Yeti is the new, hot ticket in coolers and mugs. My status as a cool person is now cemented.
My sister's gift to me is en route, but I have a feeling it's a really cute tote.
Because I asked for a really cute tote.
As for the wee ones, Natalie gave me hugs and Sutton slapped me right in the eyeball. Babies aren't great at birthday gifts, but in Sutton's defense, it's not actually my birthday yet. So that may have just been a "Happy Weekend, Mother. Will you please pick me up? OH NO SHE PICKED ME UP I MUST SLAP HER DIRECTLY ON HER EYEBALL," kind of thing. Not a birthday thing.
This weekend saw me eat more than just cupcakes. There's a 99.9-100% chance that I made some Peanut Butter S'more Pots for a date-night-in Saturday. (Guess where I got the recipe? My newest obsession: Budget Bytes. See: previous post about domestic winning. They were so rich but so yum.) I made those after we ordered out for some Italian food. And then after we ate the Italian (reminder: food, not an actual Italian person) and the PB S'mores, we shared a movie box of sour skittles.
In short, my weekend consisted of: carbs, carbs, sugar, carbs. All the carbs and sugar and yum.
All of that makes me think that, perhaps, for my actual birthday, I should NOT have Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the morning, plus eat out for lunch or dinner, plus have delicious bakery confections that night.
(Don't worry, by my actual birthday, I'll have gotten over this sense of moral obligation to not overload my body with that sweet, sweetpoison sugar.)
I have no idea what kind of gift-type thingy Patrick will get (or do) for me. Piles of sugar to both delight and taunt me? A day at the spa? A neat doo-dad? A day alone at home so I can binge watch all of my Harry Potter movies? I just can't guess.
The only thing I know for sure he's getting me--or has already gotten me, more accurately--is actually a repeat gift, which means it's not exactly original, and certainly won't generate the same kind of fanfare as the last time he got me this. Just like two years ago, he's gotten me in a delicate condition.
i.e.--Knocked up.
Yeah, this was all a long-winded way of saying:
Cool, huh? There's a baby in my dusty, almost 33-year-old uterus.
With a lot of prayer and bit of luck, I'll be poppin' out another little child to obsess over in February.
More annoying baby talk and the threat of gestational diabetes to you and yours,
xo
Pretty clever, right?
Right.
I'll be 33 in a few short, wrinkly, creaky-jointed days. What do old people do to celebrate their birthdays? I'm not sure, but it probably involves facials and peels and botox.
Not for me, of course, because I'll ALWAYS look youthful. But for other people, they're totally up on that injectable botulism and dubious "fillers." I'm still holding strong with my crunchy, all-natural face care stuff.
Except this morning I used one of my favorite old philosophy products and I'm like, yeah--some chemicals are totally worth it. Which makes me think, well, if this chemical is okay, another one would probably smooth away these fine lines. And another one would probably plump up the skin here. And I probably should just go dunk my head in a barrel of chemical treatments and see how great my skin looks after.
And then I look up those products online and remember, oh yeah, all the monies are required for smooth, wrinkle-free skin. A quick mental check of our finances and I recall that, No. I do not have all of the monies to blow on skincare anymore. And then I'm back to my crunchy, all-natural routine (but I'll probably keep the one product I used this morning--it's too magical to do without).
With that wordy and rather pointless ramble about the shocking fact that I shant be botoxing my face for my birthday, that begs the question: what will this particular old(ish) gal do for her birthday?
Well, now that you mention it, the celebration has actually already begun. After church this weekend, my parents, sister, and gifted niece (oh--did I mention? My sweet, adorable, silly niece is in the gifted program. THERE'S A GENIUS IN OUR FAMILY.) joined us at our house for some burgers, cupcakes made by my mommy (they taste like childhood and frosting), and some sparkling conversation. I got a portable steamer (no lie--I'm so happy about this one) and a Yeti mug from my parents. Apparently Yeti is the new, hot ticket in coolers and mugs. My status as a cool person is now cemented.
My sister's gift to me is en route, but I have a feeling it's a really cute tote.
Because I asked for a really cute tote.
As for the wee ones, Natalie gave me hugs and Sutton slapped me right in the eyeball. Babies aren't great at birthday gifts, but in Sutton's defense, it's not actually my birthday yet. So that may have just been a "Happy Weekend, Mother. Will you please pick me up? OH NO SHE PICKED ME UP I MUST SLAP HER DIRECTLY ON HER EYEBALL," kind of thing. Not a birthday thing.
This weekend saw me eat more than just cupcakes. There's a 99.9-100% chance that I made some Peanut Butter S'more Pots for a date-night-in Saturday. (Guess where I got the recipe? My newest obsession: Budget Bytes. See: previous post about domestic winning. They were so rich but so yum.) I made those after we ordered out for some Italian food. And then after we ate the Italian (reminder: food, not an actual Italian person) and the PB S'mores, we shared a movie box of sour skittles.
In short, my weekend consisted of: carbs, carbs, sugar, carbs. All the carbs and sugar and yum.
All of that makes me think that, perhaps, for my actual birthday, I should NOT have Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the morning, plus eat out for lunch or dinner, plus have delicious bakery confections that night.
(Don't worry, by my actual birthday, I'll have gotten over this sense of moral obligation to not overload my body with that sweet, sweet
I have no idea what kind of gift-type thingy Patrick will get (or do) for me. Piles of sugar to both delight and taunt me? A day at the spa? A neat doo-dad? A day alone at home so I can binge watch all of my Harry Potter movies? I just can't guess.
The only thing I know for sure he's getting me--or has already gotten me, more accurately--is actually a repeat gift, which means it's not exactly original, and certainly won't generate the same kind of fanfare as the last time he got me this. Just like two years ago, he's gotten me in a delicate condition.
i.e.--Knocked up.
Yeah, this was all a long-winded way of saying:
#stillprocreating
Cool, huh? There's a baby in my dusty, almost 33-year-old uterus.
With a lot of prayer and bit of luck, I'll be poppin' out another little child to obsess over in February.
More annoying baby talk and the threat of gestational diabetes to you and yours,
xo
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