For my 40th birthday next week, I’ve decided to come clean to my teenage daughter with the dark secret I’ve been hiding her entire life.
I need to tell her I’m not 25.
For years, perfume ladies and single fathers told me that I didn’t look “a day over 20.” The first time it happened, a full-body euphoria coursed through me right there at the Willowbrook Mall. I was as happy as when I first held little Dayna in my arms, but I looked way hotter. “I’m actually 21,” I giggled.
As a single mom in her late thirties with a JD/MBA and a thriving tax law business, my life was on autopilot. But as a 21-year-old, I got so many compliments! When I met Dayna’s first boyfriend, he swore he thought we were sisters. I invited him to my next foam party, but unfortunately he and Dayna broke up that weekend.
I went a little overboard reliving my twenties. When no one on the PTA would come to my “CEOs and Corporate Hoes” themed 23rd birthday party, I invited Dayna’s classmates instead.
But now that I’m turning 25/40, I want to reclaim my identity. I want to be a role model. After my tummy-tuck and neck lift, I’ll admit to Dayna what a sham the past 15 years have been.
There’s a chance Dayna suspects something is up. I’ve stopped deleting the documentaries from my Netflix queue. I haven’t even done a Jell-o shot since 2013. I feel ready to mentor her in the way my mother mentored me.
I just hope she still invites the lacrosse team to my birthday party.
