Another trip around sun and wishes are small

I recently celebrated another full, personal revolution around the sun.

In PK years, I’m 51.

Which means, I am officially older than: Fla-Vor-Ice, Sesame Street, Tic Tacs, PBS (for some reason, that one really smarts), Scooby Doo (zoinks!), Funyuns (remember those yummy, crunchy onion-flavored snacks that required Tic-Tacs soon after consumption?), and Woodstock.

Um, that last one refers to the epic concert event, not Snoopy’s little yellow pal. That Woodstock, of “Peanuts” comic strip fame, obvi, is a full year older than me, I’ll have you know. So there.

Hmpf.

Whatever, so I’m over 50 now. So, what? It’s not that big of a deal.

Except that, now the novelty of “50 and Fabulous” has worn off. Way off. So far off, I cannot for the life of me even recall thinking turning 50 was fun for even a nanosecond — which is about my short-term memory capacity these days. I digress… I think?

Nope, nothing super-awesome about celebrating the debut of my Ma’s youngest kid THIS year, I’ll tell ya. Now, I’m just officially in my 50s. I mean, I’m lookin’ at the old double nickels in 48 short months, yo.

Shudder.

And then, the next milestone b-day after that? Ewwwwwww.

Blech and hard gulp. Maybe two.

For now, let’s just stick to this year’s reminder that I’m ancient, shall we? Ahem.

Dontcha just hate it when someone asks you what you want for your birthday at this age? I mean, let’s face it:

Birthday celebrations are for the very young, the very old, and the landmark dates in between infancy and becoming a centenarian, a’ight?

A lot of the other humans don’t believe me when I say I don’t want anything for my birthday. I know this because I’m related to several of them.

“Come on, you must want something?”

Um, no. In fact, curling up on the couch with a good book and lotsa nothing else sounds pretty copacetic to this old chick.

TBH, there’s a bunch of nothing I’d love. In no particular order:

l No new prompts. I want to stop having to change my passwords every 42 seconds for all 8,429 logins requiring one … and shortly thereafter, a new one. #Ugh

l No corrective lenses. I want to be able to use my bifocals OR my cheaters but no need to put the latter on top of the former just to be able to see the 14,735th text asking me what I want for my birthday. #SixEyes

l No spam. I want to stop getting the Indie Mixtape phishing email. Every. Single. Day. Of my. Existence.

l No new wrinkles, gray hairs or age spots. I’d like to hold firm (pun intended) at 46. I think I can still pull off 46?

l No warp-speeding through these space travels. I want to slow down time so Kyle’s college years aren’t as blurry as his high school ones, capisce? Even with all six eyes, they’re fuzzy.

l No more intolerance. I simply won’t have it anymore. No more hatin’, lots more huggin’, y’all dig?

l What I really want is peace all over this big blue ball of ours. #Pray

l Ooh, and Donut House chocolate-glazed doughnut K-Cups with sugar-free Coffeemate. That I won’t turn down.

Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist who wants to take a long nap and awake to find it’s summer … every day of the year. Check out her sunny blog www.patriciakimerer.com any old day.

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