Enjoying my last hour of being 36...

... by posting here. Soon I'll be into my "old woman" year, as my friend Rob put it. He was in turn inspired by this stretch of possibly-familiar dialogue:

ARTHUR: Old woman!
DENNIS: Man!
ARTHUR: Man. Sorry. What knight lives in that castle over there?
DENNIS: I'm thirty-seven!
ARTHUR: What?
DENNIS: I'm thirty-seven. I'm not old!
ARTHUR: Well, I can't just call you 'Man'.
DENNIS: Well, you could say 'Dennis'.
ARTHUR: I didn't know you were called 'Dennis'.
DENNIS: Well, you didn't bother to find out, did you?

Etc., etc., ad infinitum. Since I'm no longer a drama geek, I'll spare you the rest.

"Thank you, good Sooz. Now, off... to Camelot!"

Actually, as much as I've joked with my honey about the last few hours of being 36, the thought of having another birthday doesn't bother me in the least. It sure beats the alternative. My dad didn't really like the idea of turning 40 -- and unfortunately, he got his wish.

I'm also one of those strange women who believe in being honest about their age. My mother has always been very straightforward about it. As a result, I grew up with the notion that women who acted coy about their age were just weird. Shouldn't we embrace the opportunities for growth, maturity, depth of personality, life experiences that come with age? Does anyone in her right mind really want to be forever 16, with the hormones and the terrible skin and the vicious mood swings and the constant, dreary superficiality of teenage life? (Gee, is it obvious yet that my teen years weren't my best ones?)

Other than my current weight, which isn't anywhere near ideal, I'm comfortable and happy with the age I am. That will hold just as true tomorrow as it does right now.