I am 40 today.
Unlike the first day of my birth I won’t cite my height and weight or how well I’m adjusting to the outside world. Suffice it to say that I’m tall enough for all the rides at Disneyland, small enough for one seat on an airplane, and while I continue to lament my inability to sustain any kind of a tan I am proud to say I am at least successfully weaned from nursing. You might assume this accomplishment goes without saying, but I guarantee there’s a Navajo Indian out there somewhere who just gasped and exclaimed, “Already?!” Still, it’s comforting to know that there was at least one moment in my 40 years where my weight was announced with joyous acclaim. Eight pounds, and the “smallest” of my parents’ 7 children.
I’ve also decided to declare it as pure coincidence that I’m somewhat feverish and constipated today, neither of which is likely to improve with the bacon cheeseburger and frosty I had from Wendy’s for dinner. One might think that a birthday spent preparing for Thanksgiving while battling an oncoming bug and monitoring my NyQuil stash would be a major downer, but that’s been the brilliant part of my day. It hasn’t.
I woke up to my husband nuzzling my neck on his way out to work as he whispered birthday wishes and was met a while later by Drew, who descended the stairs and promptly launched into the Happy Birthday song and greeted me with a hug. Friends have been ridiculously incredible, and my siblings and parents have rocked my world.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
And I hope it’s not the last.