The party’s just starting at 42


Some dread their birthday, but not me. Every year I celebrate in a big way, with friends I consider the top 1% of society. 



“It’s all about me!” I proclaimed on Sunday with my tongue firmly pressed to cheek, particularly as it was mothers’ day. 

I consciously celebrate my birthday with exaggerated enthusiasm for a number of reasons.

  1. It ain’t over til the fat lady sings karaoke eating cake mix from a Bowl with her fingers.
  2. People deserve to party hearty. 
  3. The party surely rages in the afterlife.



There have been times I didn’t think I’d make it to the age of 42. Quite honestly I have treated my body like a temple of doom. Miraculously I am in perfect health, am not in jail nor am I feeling lost or alone; stranded on a desert island eating berries and drinking my own wee.

I’m here. I’m alive.

Several hiccups along the way.... the hiccups became awkward burps at times.

In good news, those who have crossed me like a T and dotted my I’s with tears have, at least been taught a lesson or two.  They exited the stage better educated about “your” and “you’re” and now know how to shop for decent spray paint at Bunnings.

That deserves another round.

I use the C word only when necessary  here goes... 

Commitments mean that “catching up with friends” is demoted more so as years go by. Even New Year’s Eve doesn’t hold the same excitement as it once did, and when we can be arsed, our magical moments of watching breathtaking fireworks in awe must now be shared with people half hour size and twice our volume. Sigh.

My Birthday has become synonymous with “the party” time of year. My friends can forget about the family commitments (shudder), work and the post it notes on the fridge and they let their hair down Rapunzel style... belt out Guns n Roses, squeal like dying pigs, laugh until they beg for it to stop… and run naked down the beach if they want to after copious amounts of- well... everything in the liquor cabinet.  (Ok, store.)

I also use this time to celebrate the people who are no longer my party peeps and appreciate that, although I have made it to 42 reasonably unscathed, many of my friends did not. Some of them didn’t make it to 32 - a couple of them not even 22. Bloody party poopers!

Lighting candles took on a different meaning and the cries I made were not for joy. The sad times were fucking shit actually. I made a promise to them all during those dark times to kick on and dance for all of us.

So my party every year is their party. My silent crew, who party deep in my soul, and no doubt chuckle at the soap opera that is my life get some high heaven high fives. They allow me to feel the music with more clarity, dance up a storm, drink under the table and stay up all night long.

On my birthday there is no room for regret, I’d rather book a room. The music is loud, my friends are louder, it’s a furious hive of high pitched gossip swapping. It’s like speed dating on speed. It’s a rush of Adrenalin, not just a gathering.

So here I come 42, my second Twenty-first. Let’s hope I have more answers than questions than I did the last round and this round... well, this round’s on me.