On turning thirty-'leven

A year ago today, I entered my 40s. It wasn't really a big deal, because I still felt young and stupid, and hey, I went to Alaska with my parents and friends, so that made me happy. But my cousin Kathleen insisted it wouldn't last--she warned me that in your 40s, everything gives out, and your body just falls apart. I thought "in your 40s" meant spread out over the decade, not all at once.

Luckily, I've always been really healthy. So when Kathleen warned, I scoffed. And the gods scoffed back, and proved her right.

The first injury occurred the day after my birthday, when I heard something pop in a delicate area. That's when I met my new friend sciatica, who's spent the better part of my year with me. Ironically, my friend Vicki and I used to joke about being little old ladies together. She'd groan, "Oooh, my bursitis!" and I'd moan back, "Aaahh, my sciatica!" and then we'd laugh and laugh and laugh (we didn't even know what bursitis or sciatica were, they just sounded like old-people diseases). I didn't know it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy, or I wouldn't have laughed nearly so much back then. (Watch out for that bursitis, Vic!)

August brought with it a bout of the swine flu, which landed me an extra day in Arizona and a miserable plane ride home. My friend Kelley insists it wasn't swine flu (probably because she keeps a kosher home), but what other flu do you get in the summer??

I was well enough until April, when my prescription med ran out. The doctor insisted he'd only refill it if he saw me in person. That simple visit turned into blood work, which turned into a diagnosis of elevated blood sugars (I won't say the D word), and a new prescription for cholesterol meds. And before I could mope over either, I contracted Fifth's disease, which left me as crippled and weak as an arthritic 92-year-old woman. The good news is that all the Advil I popped for my inflamed joints finally cured the sciatica (seriously--I just wrote a sentence with the word "my inflamed joints"--and I was describing myself!! Hasn't this year been humiliating enough already?).

And in a final slap to the face, it weakened my immune system so that as soon as the Fifth's disease left, I caught a cold.

I'm not sure if I just hit the genetic jackpot (thanks, parents, for the wonderful genes) or if the bill finally came due from my roaring 20s (boy, did I have a good time in my 20s!!). But I am finally well now, not contagious, and must insist (to my body) that I stay that way. I'm done being sick, and am ready for a do-over into my 40s.

Everyone says that 40 is the new 30, but I'm not so sure. So instead, I am wishing myself a very happy thirty-eleventh birthday today. I promise to live a lot less crazy than I did in my 20s, a little bit calmer than I did in my 30s, and to care for myself better for my upcoming...uh, years. (I just got used to saying 40, don't make me say...the decade after. Which I'm not making fun of. At all. I swear!!!)

And if you're wondering what to get me for my birthday...well, ya probably can't go wrong with a jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Seriously. Because if the next nine years are anything like the past one, I'm gonna need it!