No, I’m not talking presidents here. I’m talking birthdays.

I turned 45 this week. It’s one of those landmark birthdays – not like 50, or course, or even like 40, but it’s divisible by five so it’s important, right?

Truth is, 45 feels pretty much just like 44. Which felt like 43, which felt like… you get the picture. I don’t know when I hit the point of “birthdays are just like every other day except maybe with cupcakes,” but I’m sure there now. I like the idea of celebrating, but there’s too much other stuff going on: the kids have homework, the spouse has work, the cats threw up on the bed (again) so I’ve got extra laundry to do.

I remember when my aunt turned 40. There were black balloons, streamers that said “Over the Hill,” gag gifts and probably – I’m making assumptions here – lots of wine. I remember thinking, “Wow, forty. That’s old.” (Sorry, Lori!)

But when I turned 40, I still felt 30. Or 25, even, only with a spouse and kids and a full-time job. Forty’s not even mid-life; it’s certainly not “over the hill.” It’s barely even grown-up, if I’m any proof.

And so, 45. My kids asked me if I was going to have a party. I thought about the laundry, the homework, all the rest and decided to pass. I figure I’ll save the party for a real landmark: 50 or 60 or 75.

Also, it turns out that grown-ups can buy cupcakes any day of the week.