I love birthdays. They’re like facials for the soul. After one, I always feel refreshed, pampered and a little raw. All that attention and love packed into 16 hours somehow peels back a few layers, exposing me to a world that’s warmer and fuzzier than I thought.
On this particular birthday, I turned 30. This morning, JF showered me with gifts I’d forgotten I wanted. At work, my colleagues made me feel so special and appreciated. After that, my mom gathered my family together for a beautiful meal followed by a rousing game of Nerd (a.k.a. Nerts or Dutch Blitz).
Since waking up at 7:30 a.m., I’ve received literally hundreds of messages and calls wishing me every good thing. I’ve cried half a dozen times (yes I know I’m a sap) of sheer joyverwhelmedness. I felt particularly weepy and grateful when my avo handed me this cotton tablecloth she spent months making.
I’m currently sprawled on the couch a) basking b) reliving the day and c) trying to sift through how I feel about being in this decade.
When I was a little girl, I assumed I would be married with two kids by age 27. The faraway thirties were kinda like the badlands of adulthood – unchartered territory, somewhere between childbirth and retirement.
At this moment, my philosophy is there are so many years ahead. I feel older. I’m certainly no wiser, but thirty is good – very good. And I thank everyone who toasted, hugged and celebrated me today. I’m the luckiest person.