Wednesday, May 5, 2010

A Writer Celebrates her Birthday

Greetings Friends,

At what point does a woman of a certain age, and of Eastern European Jewish descent, turn into a pierogi?

A pierogi is a lumpy, squishy, delicious little potato dumpling that is universally loved. You can boil them and serve them with tomato or some other type of sauce, saute them in oil and onions, or, if you want to go the suicidally unhealthy route - deep fry them. Any way they're prepared, they're yummy. You can even get them on a pizza here in Canada - walk into any Boston Pizza locale and order up one of their Spicy Perogy pizzas. It's my favourite.

When I look at pictures of famous women who are in my age range, I can't help but think my ethnic background and gene pool has predetermined me to morph into a bean bag chair later in life. I'm not going to look like Demi Moore at 47, or Christie Brinkley at 56. I certainly won't have legs like Tina Turner at 70, or perky cleavage at 75 like Sofia Loren. No, I'll probably end up looking like a Joan Rivers drag queen wanna-be. I am Pierogi Woman, and this is my destiny. Instead of a bullet proof tiara and bracelets, I'll have cement matzo balls and the repellent sheen of schmaltz to protect me from harm. Again, it is my destiny, and no amount of expensive face cream or plastic surgery will ward off what is bound to happen.

In the meantime, today is just another day; it will drift away into tomorrow and for the next 364 days, I won't have to acknowledge the day of my birth. I'm far enough away from another milestone number that I don't have to concern myself with being feted for getting older. Instead, I plan to accumulate more of that "wisdom that comes with age", while simultaneously avoiding turning into the proverbial "old fart". This is just another example of chronology that I willfully choose to ignore, except when someone calls me "ma'am"; that's been happening a lot lately.

If you happen to be reading this in the US, have a Corona and a burrito for me today. Cinco de Mayo has become, like St. Patrick's Day, an occasion for drunken celebration. So go ahead - get plowed in my honour. You'll be the one with the hangover. At my age, a hangover would probably last a week. Cheers!


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