When you can bake a better cupcake that you can buy, you must resign yourself to the task. Because on, one’s birthday, no one should eat a subpar cupcake.
Hello, Sunday. Hello, 35.
That’s right. Thirty five years ago on what I hear was a very hot August day in Buffalo, New York, I emerged kicking and screaming and a nice jaundice-y yellow. My color has since normalized, though I’ve been known to still kick and scream on occasion.
It’s not that I’m necessarily looking forward to adding another candle to the cake (or entering a new age bracket on those survey things), but I’m looking forward with hope to what 35 may bring.
I’m going to admit that 34 wasn’t the best year. Nothing bad happened, but nothing particularly extraordinary either. It was just sort of there, and in hindsight it seems that the only worthwhile accomplishment that I had was adopting Crawley (which in its own small way, is taking on a sort of responsibility I’ve shirked thus far). I’ve felt stuck and have been without much luck, trying to figure out how to be unstuck and, in speaking to many of my like-aged friends, it’s a feeling in which I’m not alone. For the first time since I moved here over 9 years ago, I’ve seriously considered life outside the 606, however scary and radical that change would be.
In the end I decided to stay put, not quite done with what Chicago has to offer, possibilities peeking through of late that suggest some sort of something might be on the horizon, and I figured I’d stick around and see.
And finally, long ago I gave up the notion of plans and timelines because history shows that those plans were at most best-laid, and the timelines never met. So as I look ahead and the next 364 I strive:
To be more kind, to others and more importantly myself.
To be more open (along the same lines as my word-of-the-year, welcome).
To be more spontaneous.
To never stop learning.
To be more grateful, for my friends and fortunes.
And with that, I ask you for any life advice to carry with me as I enter #Halfwayto70, so that I may learn from your experience as I start to forge my own.
And with that, off to the Renaissance Fair!
Written after a birthday sweat
P.S. Mom pointed out that my hands are huge. I pointed out that I got them from someone…