It's my birthday; I can blog if I want to.

So today is my birthday. Once a year, like clockwork, whether I need one or not. Or as my mother reminded me  -- it sure beats the alternative.

I hadn't planned on writing anything today, but my awesome group of girlfriends (who must love me because not one of them mentioned that I was by far the oldest at the table) took me for a delicious breakfast celebration. All our chit chat got me thinking.

Maybe I'm missing an order of operations in my styling process. 

• It's kind of common knowledge around my circle, but I still think it's totally cool that my brother and I have the same birthday. Plus, not that I follow these things, but our sign is Gemini -- the twins. He's so awesome. Like the sister I never had. 
• The best thing about birthdays at this stage of life is how excited my kids get. They've been plotting and scheming all week with each other and their dad. Nothing pulls three feuding sisters together like conspiring on a plan. I remember a couple of years ago when the littlest one asked "What theme party are you going to have?" Turns out finding Botox-themed pinata is harder than you might think.
• I think the whole Facebook birthday thing is a curious phenomenon. Fun, but curious. Don't get me wrong: receiving birthday wishes from someone I knew when I worked for one high school summer in the Sears hardware department is pretty amazing. I'm just not sure if we ran into each other in person that she'd know I'm me let alone a Flag Day baby. That sounds mean, but admit it -- if Facebook didn't remind you it was someone's birthday, you would've carried on your day minding your own beeswax playing Candy Crush Saga or debating if you enrolled your kids in enough camps this summer (first day of summer vacation panic anyone?).
• Revelation: Donald Trump and I share more than just challenging hair. He's also born on June 14. So is Yasmine Bleeth. And I'm secretly hoping she's looking as muffiny these days in that one piece red lifeguard suit as I have for 15. 
• For years, I've ascribed to the theory of making myself several years older than I actually am. For example, if for some reason I needed to reveal my age:

Them: Do  you remember that episode of Gilligan's Island where Maryann ate the radioactive carrots and could see for miles?

Me:  Of course I do.

Them:  Oh, I wasn't sure how old you are.

This year, the answer to that dumbass scenario is 49. I can trace this practice back to my 29th birthday. That year I moved to California and told all my new coworkers I was 30. I'm not sure why 29 was a difficult number me, but when the real 30th came around the next year I felt like I got a birthday mulligan. It was exciting, refreshing and yes, I do realize probably worthy of 30 hours of therapy-couch time. The theory is --  I might not look particularly great for my real age, but for 49, I might get the occasional "damn girl, what's your secret?"