Happy birthday, gorgeous

I woke up a couple of days ago with an ominous sore spot at the tip of my chin. When palpated gently, it felt pretty much like a pea. I knew I was in trouble when it started turning red. Within 24 hours, it had turned into a pimple the size of Mt. Vesuvius.

Now, I realize that in the grand scheme of things, this is a very minor injustice. But come on: tomorrow is my 38th birthday. If I’m going to have the skin of a 16-year-old, should I not also have her nubile thighs and flat stomach?

Hey, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t go back to being 16 years old if you paid me a million dollars. And for the most part, I’m happy with my almost-38-year-old body. It’s done a lot for me, after all. It ran two marathons, birthed and breastfed two babies, and put up with years of self-hatred and abuse with a minimum of protest.

There are a few things I wouldn’t mind trading in. My bum foot, for example. I’m sick of limping around in hideous shoes. I’m not thrilled about my bleeding gums, either. And this pimple is an absolute outrage. Otherwise, I’m okay with it. I feel like I’ve earned my wrinkles, grey hair, and drooping breasts.

Tomorrow I’m going to celebrate being alive, healthy, and 38 years old. I’m going to go for a walk on the beach, cuddle with my kids, eat a lot of birthday cake, and have sex with my husband. I may be crazy, but at least I know when I’ve got a good thing going.