33

It's my birthday today. I've got laryngitis (proper coughing-until-you-vomit laryngitis, too), I feel like shit and I think I should probably postpone it. But hey, I'm 33 and that is a pretty number. I've always been a bit ambivalent about my birthday, although not because of getting older: so far life has only improved as it's gone on and I wouldn't go back to my twenties or (shudder) my teens if you paid me an inordinate amount of money.
Birthdays are just odd to me. My family have always been a little strange about cultural festivals: we don't celebrate mother's day or father's day, and we never really celebrated Easter (long story). From when I was quite young we decided that presents should be something you really, really want, which, given our generally expensive tastes, meant that we tended to get birthday-christmas-birthday presents. On one memorable occasion when I was still living at home, everyone I knew, including my parents, forgot my birthday. It pissed me off a bit, but at the same time made perfect sense. If I didn't invest much meaning in the day, why should anyone else?
On the other hand, my partner understands the need for rituals. She got up early and made me breakfast. She wrapped my present with the biggest, pinkest bow she could find because she knew I was feeling unwell and a bit sad.
Although I explained that what I really want this year is a contribution to my sewing machine fund, she bought me Beautiful Thing, which is a DVD I've wanted for years, and which has just been re-released. So I get to stay at home on a rainy day watching a romantic tale about teenage boys from a housing estate (I'm secretly soppy and like to watch romances).
She really is the perfect antidote to my rational, serious tendencies. I don't really know why this gem of a woman puts up with my joy-killing rationalism, but I'm doing my best to put it aside every now and then.
Yes, I am starting a sewing machine fund. We're going back to Australia in January, and I will need a sewing machine. I grew up sewing on a 1960s Singer, and then on a late-80s/early-90s Singer when the earlier one died. Although the later Singer was a bit persnickety, it would sew nearly anything, including 14 oz denim. It's still in perfect working order, but it belongs to my mother, who, as of today, is moving to another state. 14 hours drive is a little far to go to borrow the machine.
I do have a sewing-machine over here, but I'm not taking it home. It's a solid and fairly grunty little thing, but I'd like something with a little more finesse, so I'll be selling it, probably in November.

I'm using a couple of days' enforced rest to catch up on reading blog entries. There were over 200, but I'm whittling them down.