Love Lesson No. 122
It’s my Birthday Month Eve!
And, I’m not waiting for anyone’s permission to get this party started. LOL.
. . . . .
It starts in your late thirties, right?
When people your age stop celebrating and start to complaining about getting old.
Ugh. Stop it!
When I was 35, I was diagnosed with invasive cervical cancer.
Yeah. It was six weeks after giving birth to my son. And, it was scary AF.
Surgery removed the pea-sized tumor… and my cervix… and uterus and lymph nodes and the margins. Which, I guess, means taking out everything they can all the way around the immediate area.
It’s cool. ‘Cause I definitely wanna live.
Afterward, there was no sign of it.
Two years later they found more in lymph nodes in my back.
I survived, in part, to spite the doc that recommended I “get my affairs in order.”
That really pissed me off.
That second time was 16 years ago.
16 years of loving the f*ck out of birthdays.
Encouraging you to do the same. Because they beat the sh*t outta the alternative.
And, none of us are going to have them forever.
. . . . .
Remember birthdays when you were 6?
This year, I’m going 28 times more HAM than that! Every single damn day in February.
I am going to buy lunch for a friend I had a falling out with a while back. To let her know I’ve missed her and remind her I still love her.
Then, I’m going to skate with Unicorn Queen before she moves her sparkly little booty all the way to Bay City. (That’s derby talk for Meaghan took a new job kinda far away.) 🙁
The next day, I’m going to hug tackle Amanda. I haven’t seen her enough this year.
I also scheduled a private yoga class with my daughter when she’s here.
And, I’ll be hosting Love You More with my bff.
I’m going to do at least one equally amazing thing every day in February.
And, if I get tired. I’m going to nap. For as long as I want.
. . . . .
In fact, it’s almost midnight right now.
As soon as I finish this post…
I’m going to eat a spoonful of hot fudge topping right out of the jar.
Enjoy the bowl of noodles I should have had for dinner.
And, watch some ridiculous tv.
Ooohhh. I hope it’s Stassi Schroeder.
Shrieking, “IT’S MY F*CKING BIRTHDAY!”
And, I’ll cheer her on.
Because that crazy b*tch knows how to do birthdays.
And, I love that!