Birthdays, midlife crisis should both be ignored

By Debbie Farmer

'What are we going to do for your birthday, Mommy?" my daughter asked.

"Sh!" I clamped my hand over her mouth. "Someone might hear you."

My daughter didn't understand that after the age of 21, birthdays hold the same appeal as a root canal.

"Aren't you going to have a party?" she asked as if she expected me to celebrate by renting an inflatable astrojump for the backyard and inviting 15 of my friends over for pizza and ice cream.

Instead, I did what any other intelligent woman my age would do: I went to the grocery store and bought a container of moisturizing beauty cream, a box of hair dye and a bottle of champagne.

As I stood in line with my cart, I got my driver's license ready to show the young clerk since a sign on the register said anyone making an alcoholic purchase, who looks younger than, say 52, must show their ID.

"Oh, no need," she giggled.

"Just take a look," I insisted, holding it higher. "Please?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, OK."

I held it out for her to read.

"Wow!" she said. "You could've seen Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock! Cool."

I grabbed my cart and hurried to the car. When I got home I locked myself in the bathroom and ripped opened the box of hair dye. I shampooed it into my hair and slathered moisturizing cream on my face, while my children hovered outside the door.

"What's that smell?" my daughter shouted underneath the door.

"Nothing."

According to the directions, I needed to wait 25 minutes before seeing any results. When the time was up I didn't notice much difference so I set the timer for another 15 minutes and settled back into the tub to wait. Suddenly my face started tingling and my head felt like it was on fire. I frantically rinsed off the dye and face cream.

"Mom, what's taking so long?" my daughter asked. "Are you OK?"

"Yes." I would've been, except my hair had turned brassy orange and I had a bright red rash around my eyes and mouth. I looked more like Bozo the Clown than a young, hip mom. I opened the bathroom door slowly, expecting my children to either scream or ask me to make balloon poodles.

"Happy birthday, Mom!" they cried. They didn't notice anything wrong as they led me into the kitchen and pointed to a chocolate cake with "Happy Birthday Mom" written in green frosting on the top.

I blew out the candles and turned to my husband. "You know, honey, I think it's silly to let getting older bother me so much. After all, I don't need to follow trends and have young-colored hair to be a good mother." I took a bite of cake. "Besides, my midlife crisis isn't due for at least another twenty years."

"Yeah, especially if you live to be a hundred and six."

I considered this for a moment, then I wondered which would hurt more--whacking him on the nose or getting my belly button pierced.

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Readers can contact Debbie Farmer at familydaze@home.com.

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