...or "How Not To Spend Your 41st Birthday".
Turning 41 is sort of like stubbing your toe. It is not tragic, like say, turning 40, but does make you want to yell out, "GAH! Son of a.....ugh....mother f....." You know, like when you kick the corner of your dresser in the night when you get up to pee in the dark. Hurts, but not life-altering.
So, what to do on your forty-first birthday?
First off, I annoyingly insisted to everyone that I was changing my name to "Tracy QuatroUno" for the day, and they must refer to me as such.
Now what? Hmmm.....mani, pedi, maybe a massage...? Oh, I KNOW!
Get a mammogram and then go try on swimsuits. Yesssssssssssss! *fistpump*
Or at least that is what I did. I mean, you can do something dull and boring like go to dinner, have drinks with friends, or go out clubbing. *Yawn.*
The mammy was a follow up appointment on my right girl so it was only a one-sided boob squish. Still, not all that fun.
The real fun followed when I had the BRILLIANT idea to go try on bathing suits. Oh, frolic and joy.
Let me say that the bikini days are probably over. Yeah, that. Just leave out the "probably". So I moved on to trying on one-piece ensembles. Sort of eeeeasing myself into the old lady one piece Hawaiian-print swimdress look.
The first one I tried was a cute little purple number:
And hell to the no, I am not posting a picture of myself in above-referenced suit. Suffice it to say, I looked somewhat like this:
After trying on a few (and throwing each one to the floor in disgust in toddler-tantrum fashion 'cause I can be really mature that way), I finally decided on a tankini. Yes, I am aware that horizontal stripes are pretty much a no-no, but this was a suit I didn't hate/want to shred/pour lighter fluid on/dance around fire, chanting, "I win, I win, I win!"
Maybe I ought to just join one of those religions where they only wear "modest" swimsuits.