Last winter I was at a friend's birthday dinner and struck up a conversation with another friend's charming boyfriend. The birthday girl that evening was turning 25 or 26, something like that, and because a great many of my friends are a wee bit younger than I am (a consequence of taking 5 years off before graduate school, rather than the one or two years more normal among this group), I often sit in on conversations about how OLD and OOOOOLLLLLDDDD and OOOOOLLLLLLDDDDD people feel who are not yet as old as I. This is funny to me, because a) none of us are old, and b) I like getting older. I get better looking every year.
So this man, let's just call him Captain Hilarious because he truly is a very funny man, asked me when my birthday was, and I told him it was in December. "Oh yeah?" He asked. "That's cool. How old did you turn this year?" I told him I'd just turned 32, and whoa nelly. You'd have thought I just told him I was the pope's daughter or something, he was seriously that shocked. Jaw on the ground, eyes bugging out, that kind of shocked. "Well," he blurted, looking me up and down like a State Fair exhibit. "Wow. I-I had no idea. Well." He nodded firmly. "You're doing really, really good." I laughed, thanked him, and told him what I just told you: I get better looking every year.
I'm telling you this story right now because my father just sent me another photo of agonizing awfulness, a photo that caused me to contemplate whether or not people believe me when I say that thing about getting better looking, or whether they think I'm just saying that like how a lot of old ladies develop their birthday-coping-one-liner over time. Blog, let me assure you. Even if that line does become my birthday coping one liner, it is TRUE. Here, look. 1992.
That's me and Superdad. And now, for a sneak peak at 2010:
I'm not saying I'm going to turn around and win any beauty contests any time soon, but given my choice between 1992 and 2010, I'll take today, please. All things considered, I'm doing really, really good.