In my head I am 32. I am, admittedly, not that much older, but it hit me the other day that at my next birthday I will be 34 and it just didn’t tally with the age I thought I was.
Which is odd because birthdays are important to me. I don’t subscribe to that whole don’t make a fuss thing. What’s not to like about presents, balloons, cake and a whole day to celebrate your existence? What’s more, I think birthdays become even more important once you have children because it’s an opportunity for them to learn about the pleasure of giving and making other people feel special, about saving pocket money for presents and attention not always being on them.
And while I remember my last birthday, the lunch with friends, the nice gifts and the fish and chips in the evening with Mr, I just didn’t take it in properly. My brain, addled by eight months of sleep deprivation at that time, just didn’t register the change in number. And now, when people ask me my age, I automatically say 32. I feel like the 490 or so people in Samoa who lost their birthday this year when the country decided they’d had enough of being a day behind their major trading partners and skipped December 30th.*
I wonder whether I will ever catch up with myself.
*Yes really, there are just 179,000 people in Samoa, which divided by 365.25 is 490.