On My Doorstep

When I got home today from the regular drop-off routine and a quick trip to the corner store for bread because the girls had to have peanut butter on tortillas in their lunches, there was a big box on the doorstep addressed to me. I mean, it's fun to get anything in the mail, but a big, mysterious box marked "fragile" and "keep cold" from Maryland? I worked eagerly and quickly from the taped folds of the box to the Styrofoam that cradled the contents with great care, the delicate, purple cellophane, the gorgeous tin, the cooling pouch of dry ice and finally at its very center....a seven-layer caramel cake! A cake! For me! The only problem is I don't know what glorious human being I need to give credit to for completely lifting me from my lingering birthday blues. So, speak up, oh wonderful someone.

You see, it was my birthday last week. And it was terrible. Really, truly terrible because instead of having a party, I had a pity party with my now 35-yr-old self that lasted the entire week. I gave in to every feel-sorry-for-myself impulse, ignored well-wishing phone calls and cried a lot for no particular reason. Maybe it's that I'm 35 and expecting an unexpected 5th child, 35 and still no Master's degree or novel written, 35 and losing control of my ass again, 35 and we had to put all of our birthday money in to the bank to pay for groceries and track shoes for the kids and a plumbing bill, 35 and nothing is getting easier, 35 and I had to make dinner for myself, 35 and I gave my birthday cake away to a friend who just had a baby so I would have a legitimate excuse to feel sorry for myself.

Really, I didn't deserve a celebration. I really didn't. Who wants to sing Happy Birthday to a depressive, greying and now legitimate middle-ager?

But really, I thought by now I had come to a somewhat respectable acceptance with the inevitable realities of being an adult. I guess not. It's so disappointing to realize that at 35, when there's officially no going back to the warm embrace of youth, that I'm still surprised when life gets really hard (what?! how could you?!), that I still want sacrifice to not require that much of me, that I feel life owes me certain luxuries and advantages because I'm nice and keep the rules, that I still want to be taken care of, that I lose all perspective in the face of challenge, that I continue to lose patience, inherit bad habits, collect jealousies and inadequacies, and resort so quickly to pessimism. When will I become that respectable adult? Maybe when I'm 40? 50? But until then, I've fooled at least one person into thinking I'm worth a seven-layer caramel cake. Sucker.