Today, I am 23 years old. Specifically, at 7 a.m. I turned 23. On May 15th, 1991 I came into this world as an 8 pound 15 and a half ounce ball of crying bloody flesh. I was cut out of my mothers stomach after hours of useless labor. Her hips weren’t wide enough to pass my fat baby ass so as a last resort they cut her open and ripped me into this world.
So far, I’ve gotten 4 generic Happy Birthday texts and an email from Taco Johns and one from Funimation. I got the generic questions of how I’m planning on celebrating. I’m 23, not 15. I’ll be having dinner at my mom’s and then relaxing with my husband and my dog and my cat watching 90’s Law and Order SVU re-runs. I’ll be stuffing my face with goolash and cake (hopefully). I’ll be planning out my day for tomorrow and thinking of ways to better myself as each domino falls against my favor. I’ll be spending my day as I would any other day.
I won’t be making any stupid plans to go party or get drunk. I won’t be running around town blowing my paycheck on gifts for myself. I won’t be going to work tomorrow raving about what a crazy night I had. I won’t be acting like a “woo girl” after a colorful night of trying to force my kidneys into failure. I won’t be doing any of those things.
Today, I am 23. I’m a college graduate, a full time employee, and loanee, a renter, a wife, a sister, and a daughter. Today, I am 23. Happy Birthday to me. Woo.