Today is my birthday. Thirty-seven candles on the gluten-free cake. Strange, I don’t feel that old. I don’t feel half that old. I’m celebrating by getting the hell out of town going up to Winter Park with my girlfriends for four days of laughing, drinking, talking, drinking, hottubbing, drinking, and oh yeah, scrapbooking. Twice a year we go, and this fall’s trip happened to fall on my birthday. And I’m totally ok with that. Hopefully we won’t have to dig our cars out of three effin’ feet of snow like we had to in April. Seriously Ma Nature, if you’re going to try to snow us in, either do it or no. Making us dig out vehicles in semi-blizzard conditions was just cruel.
Thirty-seven. It’s just coincidence that I’m trying to find my mission, my purpose, as I hit a birthday. At least it isn’t one that ends in a zero.
Thirty-seven. I have to keep reminding myself of the number because I quit paying attention after I turned 25 and could legally rent a car. Then I had kids and my brain went to mush. I miss my brain.
Thirty-seven. Oh, I pray that’s not the halfway point.
Thirty-seven. The boys are now officially closer to their high school graduation than I am to mine. That’s a sobering thought I shouldn’t have had while sober.
Thirty-seven. An age at which I am so relieved to be finished having children and not just beginning to have children.
Thirty-seven. Old enough to know better, still young enough to not really give a damn.
Think I’ll celebrate this successful spin around the sun and lift a glass to the next year.