I was amused this week to learn that the old Bill Murray movie, "Groundhog Day," has apparently come to life for someone I used to know all too well. My ex-husband, Peter Pan, has apparently found the key to turning back the clock, because this past Tuesday, he turned 40. Again.
But he wasn't satisfied to quietly turn 40 for the second time. Oh no. To my entertainment, and now yours, he threw a party to celebrate the special event, bringing his friends and family along for the ride.
I shouldn't have been so surprised, I suppose. He's been lying about his age since I've known him, [although amusingly, he is now going in the other direction.] But throwing yourself a birthday party for an age you turned six years ago, and for which you have already had a big celebration, seems excessive, even for him.
But it was a birthday party, after all, and he was the gift that kept on giving.
Because, even more fun, he invited other people to the circus. Not only were his two children there, one of whom is almost 24 [you do the math,] but there were actually other attendees who were present the first time around, and really should have known better.
I think that is testament to the gullibility of human beings, because they apparently chose to believe what he told them, rather than what they should have known of their own experience. Not to mention what their eyes should be screaming, but I digress again.
It is fascinating, this cult of youthfulness that seems to permeate our society. I am not immune to it, of course. I am pushing 50, and I hate it. I do not want to be 50, because that is middle aged, and I am not middle aged, at least in my mind. I have heard 50 is the new 40, whatever that means. I think 50 is the old 25, myself.
And since we apparently get to choose what age we want to be, I am going to just go ahead and pick 25 and be done with it. I feel 25, I could see better when I was 25, and I would enjoy reliving my young adulthood and getting it right this time. I was a lot thinner then, too, and it was a lot easier to stay that way. So if we're going to lie about our ages wholesale, I am going to pick 25.
Of course, it makes that 23 year old son a little awkward to explain, but if that's the only bump in my road, I'll take it. I've already bottomed out, any how, so what's another dent, I say?
Which brings me to the part of this whole episode that most perplexes me. Mr. Birthday Boy only shaved off six years. If you are going to lie about your age on that kind of scale, and even throw a fraudulent party to "celebrate" the occasion, wouldn't you at least make it worth your while? I mean, in what way is 40 a sexier, more thrilling age than 46?
It makes me wonder if somewhere along the line, even Peter Pan will get grounded.
In the meantime, I am happy to be standing on the sidelines, instead of wandering the carnival midway. Roller coasters can be fun, but they make me nauseous when they go upside down.
I'd rather be Tinkerbell, I think. That way I can throw pixie dust around and fly away. Now that's a ride I can enjoy.
