I hate the month of May. Sure, it’s a great month for some reasons, such as the ever trusty FA Cup final and the continuation of spring, but it’s also the month of my birth. And I hate birthdays, especially my own. I mean, what is there to be so happy about when people wish you a “Happy Birthday”? Happy you’ve made it through another year without succumbing to some awful disease or road traffic accident? Happy that you’re another year nearer retirement? Happy your old clothes are back in fashion? The possibilities are endless.
This year is a particularly bad one for me, as I’m now going to be the wrong side of thirty. Time is flying past so fast these days that I’m having trouble just keeping up with which day of the week it is. I’ve even had to buy a watch that tells the day and the date. At this rate, come the end of the week I’ll be retired and heading for that great old folk’s home in the sky. It’s just a pity that the time between pay cheques seems to run at a much slower speed to everything else.
And considering I was sufficiently depressed when I reached thirty, heaven knows what state I’ll be in when I reach forty! Just think what I’ve got to look forward to. Hair where I don’t want hair, and no hair where I need it the most. I’m already suffering from a few grey hairs in all departments, so what will happen when my Match.com profile reports I’ve now advanced to 36 years old. Will my number of search results pages disintegrate to a mere handful or will I now be targeted by the forty something brigade?
2 comments:
I hate birthdays too. They remind of what I haven't accomplished. Where is that optimism you generally have though? I'm gonna say Happy Birthday, because it's the one day out of the year that is all about you. Whatever you say goes, how often does that happen?
As ever, thanks for the kind words.
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