Ontogeny Recapitulating Philogeny, Susie Style

A husband who is a real diplomat
always remembers her birthday,
but forgets what her age is.


It crept up on me like a blind turtle. The year moved slower than usual, plodding in a confused weaving pattern, bashing into deadlines and bonking into resistances of all kinds. I retreated further into my shell after each collision. We cancerians are like that. No matter who you are or what your sign is, some years are just harder to get through. By that I don't mean unpleasant, just hard. There were so many large projects to tie up, huge decisions to make on short notice, and critical mistakes to repair. There were trips to far away exotic places like L.A., and visitors from the cheese state. Then there's the rash thing. Every once in a while I am plagued with allergic reactions consecutively, this was one of those years. I’m still fighting the itch.

Even though being the birthday girl has many perks, I suppose I wasn't in any hurry to leap into another age group. I will now fall into the 46-50 box. If I apply the cup is half full attitude, I could say I look young for a 46-50 year old; employing the half empty mindset, I'm worried that those numbers will turn into my measurements, or worse yet, my pant size. I knew July was coming. Duh. There were fireworks stands springing forth in every parking lot. Everywhere I went I was assaulted with the red, white and blue machinations of the merchandising monsters. I think what I was wishing for was to be able to get through the year without anyone asking how old I was, especially the month of July.

I've been getting cards and gifts all week which made me feel special. I even felt pretty when the long stem roses arrived, even if I was in my ugly clothes with my hair pulled up in the most unattractive bun that just screamed Nazi Germany . I'd been fricassee frantic all day Thursday, and cleaning like an indentured servant , so I wouldn't have to on my birthday. Cooking on my special day would be like…ironing on my honey moon! I don't think so! I'll never do that again.
If you're wondering to which I am referring, the answer is...both.

If a person slaves for a week so that one day could be bondage-free, does that make them an optimist, masochist, or just stupid? How about a stupid masochistic optimist? My week long servitude was exhausting; It left me battered (I'm a klutz ), beaten ( I just couldn't get ahead), and bruised (More clumsiness ) and most importantly, too worn to enjoy much. Good thing it was a safe bet I wouldn't be dancing on my day because my feet hurt! Don't get me wrong, I love to dance...er...I did...when I could. If I could have today, I couldn't have, on account of my self-inflicted enslavement leaving my legs in the state of Jello, so good thing I couldn't anyways.

The last two days were worth it all in th end . I don't remember ever having such an eventful, me centered week in my life. It was great. I will always remember it as being a strangely comforting euphemism. Hopefully, I'll live long enough to savor the memories throughout my golden years, thus completing the metaphorical circle of life-- ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, Susie Style.
7/3/2005 11:47 AM
word count 572