Wow. Twenty-five is over, huh?
Happy birthday to me!
I would like cupcakes, Champagne, widespread acceptance of the Oxford comma, and a puppy. Preferably a French bulldog named Bennington, who rounds out our brood with his I-may-be-small-but-I’m-sassy disposition.
To date, this has been, by far, the most bizarre year of my long and wise existence. It started out so well, with a smashingly successful 25th birthday. First marathon in five years completed! Champagne and cake consumed in excess! That necklace that I told John I wanted, exactly where to get it, and gave him a coupon for, in my possession! As a freshly-pressed 25 year old, I was operating at well over 100%.
The barrage of doctor’s appointments in September was definitely a low-point in my quest for year-long awesomeness. So was passing out after my arthrogram. (Heh. What can I say? I hate needles. Especially long ones that are projected onto giant radiology screens so that I can watch them inject dye into something that is like two inches from my vagina). I would also say that projectile vomiting into a freezer bag, held by my husband, after a morning of arthroscopic hip surgery, was pretty low on the list of “Awesome Things Done During My Awesome 25th Year.” (Disgusting photo below. I’d say maybe a 2 on a scale of baby polar bears frolicking to that guy in Miami whose face was eaten off).
But it would have been selfish of me to monopolize the annual quota of medical problems, so my parents, being the good sports that they are, joined in on the fun. My mom went with an emergency appendectomy the week before Christmas (well-played, Ma), while my dad chose a mystery GI-illness, that caused him to pass out and break his nose. Going on this information alone, I’d say that my mom wins, but take into consideration that my dad’s ailment was initially misdiagnosed as a heart attack, and it’s pretty much a photo finish!
By March I had accepted the fact that 25 was not going to be the carefree, glory year I had hoped for. In fact, all I wanted to do was make it to 26 without spending another minute in a hospital, and with all major appendages affixed to my body.
Thankfully, it seems, I’ve done just that. The fam is healthy, I have all of my limbs (the shepherd, on the other hand, lost a sizable chunk of her tail, but it seems all of the benign, meant-to-be-there parts are still intact), and I’m so fucking ready to take on a year that is faster, stronger, and not rife with major injuries.
So here’s to the big 2-6.
Shots mean PR’s are a sure-thing. Or at least that I’ll be hungover in the morning. Samesies.