I woke up the day after my 44th birthday with a pimple on my nose. There were smudgy bruises under my eyes and the sides of my nose looked like I got punched...hard. My hair stuck up in all direction and when I dragged a comb though it applaused with static. I looked in the mirror and cringed for a second before splashing water on my face and applying fresh mascara. This was the 44 year old me.
I woke up the day after my 44th birthday and had pie for breakfast. This what you can do when you are 44. Eat pie for breakfast. Not just any pie. Birthday pie. Apple pie. Apple pie made by the mister with three kinds of apple and two kinds of pepper. Delicious.
I woke up the day after my 44th birthday and pulled on a pair of stripy over the knee socks that refused to remain over my 44 year old knees. I put on a pair of stretchy old lady pedal pushers under a pencil skirt that was less pencil, more sack. It was a bit too big but I woke up with a pimple on my nose and smudgy bruises under my eyes and could not muster up the care to ditch the stripy socks. It was all about the stripy socks. I topped of the ensemble with a polka dotted top that in retrospect looked better on the hanger...in the store.
I woke up the day after my 44th birthday and went to work dressed as a drunken Pippi Longstocking. My socks fell down often, my shoes squeaked with every step, and I noticed I forgot to double check my lipstick on the left part of my lower lip which is really hard to put lipstick on due to that pesky thing called nerve damage. It was smeared to all get out and no one said a word.
I woke up the day after my 44th birthday to enjoy a day full of color, laughter, ladybugs, hawks, mud, hugs and handmade cards made by little sticky hands.
Not a bad start to this new year. Not a bad start at all.