Today is my birthday.  Well, not today, the day you are reading this, but today, the day I am writing this.

I’ll go ahead and tell you how old I am since you’re all speculating right now anyway.  I’m 47.  I think.

I’m at that age when one year sort of blurs into the next, and I honestly don’t keep track of which year I’m in at the moment.  I always have to do the quick math with my birth year to figure out how old I am.  It drives my kids crazy.  I mean, they know EXACTLY how old they are, down to the month.  They don’t understand how it isn’t the most important thing in the world to me.

Being forty-seven has a lot of benefits.  Like, I can look forward to getting the senior citizen discount at Palais Royal in just three years.  And I don’t have to worry about trying to look twenty-five anymore.  Stretch-waist pants are starting to look pretty comfortable.

But there are some things that Mom didn’t tell me about being this old.  Heck, nobody knows about them, because no one ever talks about them.

A lot of things we expect.  Gray hair, wrinkles, having to read the newspaper at arm’s length.  All expected.

There are two specific things that happen, though, that nobody talks about, and we all think we’re the only ones who have them.

I’ll never forget when I discovered my first one.  I thought I had some dry skin that was peeling on my chin.  I tugged and tugged and it wouldn’t come off.  Finally I got to a mirror and was horrified to find a … (GASP!) … whisker.

Yes, ladies, I’m talking about the dreaded facial hair.  Did your moms tell you about it?  I think not.

We sneak to the store to buy creams, we sneak to the electrologist to have them zapped, we sneak to the beauty shop to have them waxed.  We NEVER announce, “Today is a big day!  I’m having my facial hair removed again!” 

And you men out there, don’t be gloating that you all don’t have to worry about it and all.  Your new facial hair is growing wildly from your eyebrows and ears.

The other thing that I never knew would happen was how difficult it would be to sit through an entire movie, play, or other event without having to get up to go to the bathroom.  Planning to go to a movie takes on new meaning now.

Last night my husband and I went to a show.  We had already been drinking Cokes in the car, so it was a dangerous proposition.  But we threw care to the wind, bought our tickets, AND bought more drinks.  When you’re 47, that’s considered wild and crazy.

Well, this was one long movie.  About an hour into it, I knew that I wasn’t gonna make it.  I hate that.  I hate missing even three minutes, because you know that’s when he’s going to confess his love and give her that great big kiss you’ve been waiting all night for.

But I dashed down the corridor with as much lightning speed as a 47-year-old-who-needs-to-go can muster and didn’t miss the kiss after all.  Whew. 

Five minutes later, my husband had to make the dash.  Sadly, he did miss the kiss.  But he’s a guy.  He didn’t mind missing the kiss.  He was just happy he hadn’t missed the battle scene.

To all of you other baby boomers out there:  take comfort in knowing you are not alone. 

And to all of you teenagers who make fun of us parents, and to you twenty-somethings who don’t think it will ever happen to you: 

You have been forewarned.  Someday you’ll thank me.