Yesterday I celebrated a birthday. And by celebrated, I mean that I did not do housework, and was taken out to dinner not once, but TWICE. At real restaurants. That do not have drive-thru service.
And yes, one of them included Cracker Barrel. Which is a recurrent theme in my life right now.
I wasn’t going to mention this particular birthday, because I’ve reached an age that I can’t quite wrap my own head around. An age that the AARP thinks we’re on a first name basis. But alas, Fiddledaddy confiscated my header because he thinks it’s funny to mess with me.
A rather sobering birthday revelation I’ve had is that I’ve come to the end of the road as far as my drivers license goes.
The last time I had to have a drivers license picture taken, WAS BEFORE EMME WAS BORN. The other day, a sales clerk took a look at my license, looked up at me, back down to the picture, and then back up to me. She took a few moments to study my haggard face.
“Wow. That was a really good picture.”
“Yes, you noticed the calm and well rested look on my face? IT WAS BEFORE I HAD CHILDREN.”
As soon as I unearth my birth certificate, social security card, proof of residence, and S.A.T. scores from 1978, I’m due to head down to the license bureau, wherein I will stand in a two hour line with 3 children, and then take the most hideous picture known in drivers license history.
And I will likely then be stuck with that picture until I’m a grandmother.
Wherein shop keepers will stare at my pinched and tired face, look up at me and say, “Wow, that was a really good picture.”
But I will have no need to renew it at that point, because I plan to allow my children to chauffeur me around while Fiddledaddy and I sit in the back seat and bicker nonstop.
Happy birthday to me.