It is my birthday today. I’m thirty-nine. It’s an uncomfortable age, an age I’ve been feeling embarrassed about turning, which is, I know, utterly ludicrous and tragic.
On Facebook, I made it so that only I can see my birthdate. It wasn’t because of my age, though, but because of messages that come through from big-hearted people, messages which I always struggle to reply to.
There are messages from previous years in my inbox which remain unopened, not because of ingratitude, but because of overwhelm.
Birthdays have always been a struggle, and there are very few which I can recall as being ‘the happiest day of the year.’
It’s nine minutes to seven in the evening, and I’m still in my pyjamas. Hiking was on the agenda, but my energy levels, mirroring my mood, have been pitifully low. I’ve spent much of the day sleeping and reading Lone Wolf: Walking the Faultlines of Europe by Adam Waymouth (which I heartily recommend), eating vegan carrot cake, and stewing in sweat because taking a shower, like doing the dishes or getting the laundry in off the line, feels too much.
I have managed to muster the energy for something important, though – a second email to the Yorkshire Wildlife Park, questioning the ethics of hosting nightly concerts at the park during the summer months. I emailed them previously about a pacing cheetah that Saga and I were desperately concerned about. (I received a thorough and illuminating response.)
The laundry is still outside, the dishes, the bane of my existence, are still stacked next to the sink (if there’s a running theme in my posts, it’s the fucking household chores being left undone), and the mood of this post makes me squirm. I feel, in a sense, defeated because it would be lovely, unexpected and refreshing for you to read a birthday post where I’m happy. Fingers crossed for next year though, right?
A Wyrd Of Her Own 