Happy Birthday!

I am twenty-seven today. As is my wont, I started the festivities about three days ago and the closing ceremonies will be Monday (it’s like Mardi Gras). My actual birthday was good…Dawson bought me a bright red raincoat that is so damn beautiful it makes me wish I was a cuter version of myself. Or more aware of my appearance. Or a combo. I love that he buys me presents based on the version of me that he has in his head: Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada post-Stanley Tucci versus Anne Hathaway in that god-awful teal Gap sweater (I have it in black; I wore it last Thursday).I didn’t really think about getting older until my mom called me up and said,

“So, mija, I was talking to my very-best-friend-since-fourth-grade-Veronica (no lie, this is how my mom talks), and we can’t believe that we’re middle-aged and have children who are almost thirty. You’re not a young woman anymore, mija!”

Alas. I guess not. I’ve been married for almost four years now, so that part doesn’t make me feel old, but Dawson and I are officially entering that phase where everyone we know from high school is preggo. It’s freaking me out. I keep waiting for one of us to light candles, ply the other one with wine, and declare that we’ve been surreptitiously poking holes in my Nuva-Ring because we really are just dying to have a child. Is something wrong with us?

Virginia Woof just came up and laid her beauteous head on my lap. This is kind and unexpected. I think she knows I broached the subject of human children. Or she’s hungry. Or she read my mind and wants to eat our future children. She looks suspicious and disapproving. Yep, she definitely knows. Her brown eyes have hypnotized me…I think she might be the reason we don’t want real children. Would we have to kick her off the bed? Would she sense that I was pregnant and try to eat the baby, and thereby me, in my womb? Should we just get life insurance and take the chance? If the baby survived gestation, would she disfigure it or just pee in the house out of spite? Worse still: would we love her less? Such questions make it not worth it. Our date night conversations are already pathetically dominated with post-game analyses of her bitchy ways.

For now, 2010 is off to a great start. I am twenty-seven; we are happy.