Friday was my thirty-fifth birthday, which means I'm now at an age I distinctly remember my mom being. She had this great stonewashed denim maxi skirt that I thought was the coolest piece of fashion I'd ever seen. Let's hear it for the 80s, right? I must've been six, and thirty-five seemed so old and wise and elegant. I wanted to be those things, too.
So even though I'm 35, Quinn insisted on saying I'm now three while he held up the requisite number of fingers (because that's how old he'll be at his next birthday--gotta love the logic of a two-year-old). I woke up early on Friday to go hiking.
When I got home, Quinn came running through the kitchen repeating, "Happy birthday, Mama!" so of course I started crying. God, I love that kid.
Then Chris orchestrated a birthday party for me at our house on Saturday--from clean-up to food-prep-- which means I essentially spent the weekend eating cake surrounded by people I love.
Getting older is pretty wonderful, you know that? (Mustaches and all...)
In a little less than two weeks, I'll be heading up to San Francisco to walk 39.3 miles alongside some more people I love to help raise money for breast cancer research and support services for women who aren't as fortunate as I am.
I'm battling one heck of an ingrown toenail right now (which is so gross, I know; I'm sorry), so we'll see how that holds up on the hills of San Francisco. I've promised my nurses I'll listen to my body and won't overdue it. I am, after all, old now (at least according to what I thought when I was six.) As one nurse said to me the other day, "This walk is to support people like you, not to be done by people like you."
Hey, at least this year I won't be bald.
Here's to lots more birthdays, hiking well into middle-age, Quinn getting to make fun of my fashion choices thirty-some years from now, cake, and wishes coming true.