I’ve just turned 34. Yesterday.
Everyday I’m a day older. Every week I’m a week older. Every month I’m a month older. So you’ve guessed by now that I don’t believe it’s anything special to be one year older. And indeed it was almost an ordinary day.
Everybody congratulated me. I even decided to put up with a tradition I hate and I bought cookies and refreshments to offer them at work. Of course, every woman that went by the office and saw the cookies, wanted to know how old I was. Most of them said I’m very young, some said nothing, but all of them asked. I wonder how old they thought I was.
So everybody congratulated me, except my father. I guess the big fight we had over the phone about 2 weeks ago is still bothering him. Or he simply forgot. Either way, I tried not to get too bothered by it. Since I’m mentioning it here, I guess it didn’t work. Well, I have warned him not to push all my wrong buttons the way he did… I even told him I’m in an office full of people so I can’t discuss the things he was bringing up. Nothing mattered for him, and eventually he managed to get me really mad. So I shouted at him, and cursed a lot, and got really really mad… I thought my mother alone had the gift to bring out the worst in me, but I was obviously wrong.
Crenguţa wasn’t feeling very well, she’s probably coming down with the flu (again), so we ordered a pizza and stayed home. We opened a bottle of wine, which proved not to be very good, and didn’t go too well with the pizzas, but we drank it anyway. Then we went to sleep.