I am 45. Wow. My inner child however shines brightly through my outward middle age appearance. I ran (almost) five miles on Friday just to prove I still “had it in me” and then I realized that I am the only one who cares about this nonsense birthday ritual and the only thing I prove is that it takes longer and longer for my body to recover. So I learned another thing: the preservation of one’s inner child does not mean that perfectly good analytical brain cells don’t die unused. Had I those dead cells, I might have thought better of my ritual as well as these ramblings. Well no use crying over gray matter. If I don’t have analytical skills at least I have my memory. If I don’t have analytical skills at least I have my memory. If I don’t have analytical skills at least I have my memory. But I digress.

So we had the family over for dinner on Friday. We ordered in and my sister delegated to my aging father the responsibility of getting the cake — chocolate, because I love chocolate. Dad exercised independent judgment — I thought he was more scared of my sister otherwise he would not have — and got a whipped cream fruit tart that he bought with Skymiles. He thought that more people would like it even though I am the birthday girl and I am graying and middle-aged and all I wanted was a little chocolate on my birthday because well, I am gray, middle aged and too stupid to know better than to run (almost) five miles and if my mom is dead and she can’t look at me with adoring eyes and retell the story of my birth, then those of my siblings, then give me a damn piece of chocolate cake. But that’s my problem. Excuse me while I lie on the couch and pretend you all are high-priced shrinks who charge by the “hmmm”. Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Back to well-adjusted me who doesn’t need to play out her childish (I meant childlike) needs on her birthday.

I promise I will become less depressing as time goes on.