When people say they don’t want anything for their birthday, half of the time they don’t mean it. I sing the same ol’ song every year with hopes that the person asking is a mind reader and will magically produce the latest MacBook or an all-expense paid trip to Bali. Clearly, this has never happened. This year, however, I genuinely meant it when I said I didn’t want anything—material-wise anyway.
My wants were actually very simple: a good night’s rest so that I could wake up feeling refreshed, put on a little makeup, and wear something other than sweatpants and a graphic tee to work. This, also, did not happen (although at least my T-shirt is plain today). My husband and I spent most of last night—and the night before—dealing with an (almost) 8-month-old with a sudden sleep aversion. I’m literally running on two hours of rest. Add that to the mere three hours I had the night before and you have one pissed-off birthday girl very close to having a psychotic breakdown.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter more than a Dunkin’ Donuts iced macchiato with almond milk and two sugars (and I really love those), but I’m feeling at the end of my rope these days. All I wanted for today was a stunningly filtered selfie with a cliché caption of, “This is 30.”
I guess that would be a lie though. For me at least, 30 is usually yoga pants and a top knot with a permanent “WTF” expression on my face, looking like I barely have a grasp on things. 30 is “arguing” with an 8-month-old who doesn’t talk yet, but sure knows how to protest when she doesn’t want her diaper changed (she’s lucky she’s cute AF). 30 is cleaning my house from floor to ceiling only to cry when my husband comes in like a tornado and destroys everything in his path (he’s lucky my love is unconditional). 30 is hating my job one day, loving it the next, and then hating it all over again (rinse, repeat). 30 is spontaneous adult acne, chronic back pains, never-ending obligations, tedious money managing, an always-growing to-do list, and a general outlook on life that can be summed up as, “I. Can’t. Deal.”
With that being said, I’m grateful for another year … and for pizza.