Happy Birthday to Me!

I'm slightly jealous of the petite blonde who lives next door.

First of all, V comes by her tresses naturally. Second, she mixes it up with the boys with plenty of spunk. (I like spunk.) Third, she celebrates her birthday with gusto, right down to posting a sign on her apartment door broadcasting how old she is.

Then again, she's 7.

One thing we do have in common: We were both born in January, albeit a "few" years apart.

This year, while she was off broadcasting her number in No. 2 pencil, I was answering my brother's birthday call with, "Yeah, whatever."

It wasn't all about my number, though that figured into the equation. I was also nursing a broken ankle that had been sidelining me for weeks, with the stomach flu thrown in for good measure.

But larger changes were afoot. Up until 50, I crowed about my birthday, seeking attention in the worst way. This year, it felt like just another day I might want to move to Australia.

Thank goodness for phone calls, my friend S's visit and Facebook; goofy as it sounds, those greetings really did lift my spirits. (No, I didn't tell everyone what a downer of a day I was having. I have a positive image to maintain!)

Speaking of my social-media fix, my mood hadn't lifted all that much over the following weeks until my friend M posted an excellent meme. (I only wish I could find the link.)

It's a vintage shot of six middle-aged women on an amusement park ride. The two in the first row, decked out in pearls, look like the girls they were, hysterical with laughter; the two in Row 3 look downright dire.

The caption: "You can choose to live in the front row, or in the third row."

On my birthday, I'm afraid I was one of the Sour Sisters. I needed the reminder to move up. After all, I can't let the petite blonde next door think only 7-year-olds have spunk.

Besides, it's my birthday. Last one to the front row's a rotten egg!