Thirty-two Years Young

I'm not a big fan of my birthday.

Ever since my Sweet 16 party was a big honking flop, I've had a love/hate relationship with my birthday.

But I don't hate my birthday because I am aging. Seriously. I have never had a birthday where I was depressed because I was another year older. I've actually kind of liked getting older and older. It has been nice to start to look my age for once in my life.

This year, I get to be with my husband on my birthday. Or at least sort of. Tomorrow I will turn 32-years-old while I am winging my way to Cleveland. Which is cool because I'll get to spend at least part of my birthday with both of my best friends.

I'm really excited.

But even though I'm experiencing those pre-birthday woes as usual, this year hasn't been quite so bad.

Yesterday when I was getting my hair cut, my 25-year-old hairdresser (she's hot, sweet, and single boys!) said, "You're about the same age as me, right?"

"Um, no. I'm thirty-two. But I love you for thinking that."

And on my way out of the DMV today, with my newly renewed driver's license in hand, a stranger stopped to congratulate me on getting my first license. Umm, okay. "Thank you," I nodded as I hurried away.

"What high school do you go to?" the stranger asked.

"Not one around here," I called back to my new best friend.

I don't know. These people are clearly insane. I've aged more in the last four months than the last four years! But if they want to give me these little birthday presents early, they are more than welcome to.

I've decided to have a positive attitude this year, even if it kills me.

So happy birthday to me. I'm another year older and deeper in love.