Today is my birthday. I am 38 years…old. I am the same age as Carrie Bradshaw when Sex and the City ended. A year older than Mary Richards when The Mary Tyler Moore Show went off the air. The same age as my mother when she had been married for 12 years and had two grade school daughters. When Marilyn Monroe was my age, she had been dead for two years. Princess Diana didn’t make it this far, either.
So far I have received happy birthday emails from Webshots.com, eharmony.com, E!Online.com, and WTMX The Eric and Kathy Show. I feel well-loved by the cyber-automatic birthday mechanisms of many websites.
The day of my birth was July 24, 1966. I was born just in time to be completely oblivious to the premiere of Star Trek. I was the exact demographic for Sesame Street, which began broadcasting when I was three. I was born into a culture of wild colors, political upheaval and unwashed hair.
When I was growing up, I never understood why women lied about their age. My mother said I would understand it when I got older. I still don’t understand why women lie about their age. I was also told that I would develop a taste for alcohol. That never happened either. I wonder if I am in an arrested state of development, held back because I don’t like to drink and still tell people how old I am on my birthday. When you were growing up, did you ever start calling yourself the next age before you actually got there? So when you were 15 going on 16, you’d start thinking of yourself as 16 in the weeks (or months) ahead of the day? I still do that. I’ve been 38 since February.