There’s an overused expression, especially on the show The Bachelorette: “I’m not gonna lie.” But today I will use it too. Because on this day I turn the big 6-0 and, I’m not gonna lie, it’s been throwing me for a loop as swirly as the horns on my Aries zodiac sign, the ram.
No, this is not an April Fool’s Day joke. Though for the first time I might wish it were. As Mom likes to say, “I’m more matooer than I look.” Or used to be. I think the looks part may be catching up with me. I’m not gonna lie.
The glaring typo in the blog post I published two days ago about my wonderful editor wasn’t an April Fool’s joke either, except maybe on me. “World play” instead of “wordplay.” Cringe-inducing. I’ll likely be paranoid now about hitting that publish button before my second cup of coffee. Though, as my editor Ali Shaw said, there’s plenty of “world play” in your books.
But back to milestone birthdays. Women my age are supposed to be grandmothers—or are seen that way. Instead, I’m the lady with dyed red hair who loves her dog and cat and doesn’t like loud noises. Or diesel fumes. Who writes about aliens (though not the kind most people think) and is incapable of opening a blister pack without a crowbar.
Okay, that part about the crowbar was a bit of a fib, but is it too much to ask, for a birthday present perhaps, that they come up with packaging for sinus medication that does not induce a migraine while attempting to open it? Talk about cruelly sticking it to nail-biters!
Is this what happens when you turn sixty? You become crotchety and cantankerous about the little things? Because I still don’t like being called “ma’am,” or “Mrs.” Mrs. Wright is my mother because she married Mr. Wright. So she did pretty well.
Worrying about the big things, like not yet being eligible for a COVID vaccine, is too overwhelming. I’m not going to yuck it up and celebrate like it’s 1999 and more than half a million in the US haven’t died the past year.
The party can wait. Perhaps until next year when maybe I can hightail it to Scotland, revisiting my travels in the summer of 1990, back before I was thirty. Places I’m writing about in my fourth novel, Being Alien, coming later this year. I’m reliving and reimagining the adventure without leaving my couch, but I sure wish I had scones and Rose’s lime marmalade while I write. And great gobs of that clotted cream.
I’m not going to be selfish on my birthday because, I’m not gonna lie, selfish people who won’t wear masks and have spent the last year partying in public are the reason I have no choice but to spend this evening at home, with my critters for company. I’m not willing to put them at risk of being left with no one to care for them.
But can I just say, who would have thought I’d find myself wishing I were older instead of younger this year, so that I could have already gotten a COVID vaccine? Timing was never my strong suit.
For now, I’ll be content with sharing my April Fool’s birthday with the very fabulous Rachel Maddow on MSNBC. She’s nobody’s fool. Though she is younger than me, so not as well-seasoned. I’m not gonna lie.
Red hair? I am having a hard time wrapping my head around that. As for being 60, what Chinese Year is that? I was never much up on western astrology. And being a man, and prone to being solutions oriented, get a pair of those scissors that can cut a penny in half, they make short work of blister packs.
I always said once I started dyeing to cover up gray hair, I was going to head into auburn to enhance red highlights…1961 is the year of the ox, as is 2021. Perfect for a Longhorn (as is the burnt orange hair). I use scissors for those blister packs. I’d use a sledgehammer if I could.