Keeping On

Yesterday I turned 38, which was pretty cool since I had convinced myself about six months ago that I was already 38. So the cake and flowers and phone calls and general air of love and whatnot was simply birthday gravy. There was no sting from realizing just how many moons have come and gone in my life. That's not really my style, anyway. I feel that railing against aging is both pointless and, frankly, lacking in taste. Maybe if I were 102 or living in excruciating pain every day I'd feel differently about the passage of another year, but right now it seems kind of rude and ungrateful to bitch about getting older. I'm all about racking up the years, as many as possible. There's so much out there I haven't done or seen, and I'll be lucky if I can cross off one sixteenth of my never-shortening list, so every one I get, I'll do my damndest not to waste.

In terms of yesterday, it was super chill and therefore perfect. Unfortunately Mike had to work most of the day, but my darling boy decided to take the day off from morphing into Mr. Weinstein (his whiny alter ego) and played contentedly for hours, allowing me to sip coffee and finalize my Thankgiving menu and field messages. Later we went to the park on on the way home there was a real live pony just, you know, carting around another, smaller birthday girl and her guests. A pony, in the middle of a dense urban neighborhood. I've never actually wanted a pony-ride birthday party, but the point is, magic is everywhere. HR, who loves farm animals beyond any other thing, was blown away, and getting to see his reaction made my entire week.

Oh yes, and clearly I've decided to continue blogging for the time being. Happy birthday to YOU, then, am I right?

Song break: I just love the Lovin' Spoonful and always have. I chose to disseminate the lyrics to this song in the essay portion of my Sarah Lawrence application, and, looking back, I'm quite certain that it had a big hand in me not getting accepted. If I read that essay again now I'm sure I would come off as a clueless rube, and they had probably already fulfilled their clueless rube quota by then (to offset the clueless trust funders). Plus I'm not currently in a position to surmount the degree of mortification that reading my old stuff usually stirs up in me. I'd just like to state for the record that, though I do wonder what would have happened to me if I took the road more artsy-fartsily traveled, I'm happy where I ended up and how my life turned out. No regrets, John Sebastian, and thanks for all the secret stoner wisdom.