If I survive this weekend, I will turn 40 on the 23rd.
I'll admit it: I do get wrapped up in the number. I often wonder how my perspective would change if I had no idea how old I was? Would I be less embarrassed that 10 p.m. now seems like the middle of the night? Would I see that pillow that I jam between my knees at night as a luxury instead of a way to keep my back from hurting?
Would the two days it takes to recover from two glasses of wine be attributed to bad wine instead of a tired liver?
When I breeze through the latest trendy magazines during my pedicures, would I figure that the reason I don't know who 90% of the people featured in them are is because they lack sophistication?
Well, I'm gonna find out. I'm hitting Vegas like a 21 year-old, dammit.
Okay, maybe like a 30 year-old.
Maybe I'll end up making out with the latest heartthrob and not even know it. Doesn't that make me extra cool instead of old and out-of-it?
Wish me luck--not that I'll hit a jackpot on the slot machines--but that I can have three drinks, see midnight without having to take a nap, and actually be able to get out of bed the next day.
I'm either going to come back with a lot of blogging material or I won't come back at all because I'll be dead.
BTW, the music video on VH1 as I type this: I have no idea who the singer is. None.