They Say it's Your Birthday...

It's my birthday, too--yeah.

All year my mind has been rebelling against the idea of turning 35. Kevin has to keep reminding me that I am (was) 34, not 33. I said "I'm 33...no 34..." so many times in the past year that it got more than a little embarassing.

Yesterday I ran into a girl I know at a thrift store. I got to snoogle her newborn baby. Her third baby. This girl? She was the flower girl in my first wedding. How's that for something to make you feel elderly?

I'm not sure what my mental block about 35 is. I'm not really upset about it (really.) Thirty-five doesn't feel half as old as it did ten years ago. Thirty-five isn't even middle aged, right? I've been reading a lot lately about generational sociology, and those pretty smart people list 35 as still a young adult for Christ's sake. I'm not old.

I am, however, going to my very favorite Mexican restuarant tonight. Alone with my husband. no kids. And they're all sleeping somewhere else tonight, even the baby, so I'm sleeping in tomorrow. I'm sleeping until I wake up on my own. No baby will wake me up tomorrow morning screeching for her Frosted Mini-wheats. No almost-teenager will wake me up wondering if he can go ride his scooter--at six a.m. The teenager never wakes me up, because she hardly gets her own bootie out of bed before nine.

Sweet sleep--the best birthday present in the world!

In other news, I did get my ass in gear this week and get my book out there on it's quest to find an agent. Anyone know an agent? Anyone?