So yesterday was my birthday.
I normally write stuff to post ahead of time, but this time, I didn’t. I thought I’d have some kind of deep, introspective musing to write about after the celebration. But it didn’t happen. And there wasn’t that much celebration, either.
I had a wonderful afternoon with some spectacular friends, we had bubble tea and lunch and then my mother and I went shopping. My husband came home from work and made flautas for dinner, my favorite Mexican dish. We baked a cake, I wrote a little, and we went to bed without touching the birthday cake.
28 isn’t a very exciting birthday. Either that or as you grow older, birthdays just mean less. I watched an eager two-year-old open all my presents and squeal over the Hello Kitty wrapping paper. I thought about how being 28 doesn’t feel much different from being 27. Or 25. Or 19. Once you’re grown up, another year doesn’t change much. And I’m still in the blessed renaissance of years where they don’t add wrinkles or gray hair, either. It’s just another number, that’s all.
But a year can add a lot to life, even if it changes little. In my 27th year I undertook a lot of big projects to move forward with writing. I helped edit several books. I sent out query letters and got my first batch of rejections. I learned how to season a cast iron skillet and I improved a lot of my artistic skills. I picked up new hobbies. I wrote a large part of a book.
It wasn’t an exciting year, but it was a happy one. And I still have two years ahead of me before I’m what my dramatic younger self considered “halfway to old.” I don’t know that those two years will change a lot, but I hope they bring a lot of new knowledge. Oh, and toys.
It’s normal to get toys from your parents for your 28th birthday, right?