Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had this funny idea about birthdays. While I love good birthday wishes, it’s always made me wonder. I mean, I didn’t do anything except get born (more effort of Ma Guth’s there than mine) and manage not to die for another year. While, especially knowing me and some of the adventures I find myself on, this might seem like a feat of epic proportions, it’s really pretty easy. I say that, but maybe I nearly miss death a hundred times and day and never realize.

Anyway, there is less than an hour left for me at my present age. At midnight, the clock rolls over on a new day and, for me, a new year. I wonder what this year will have in store for me? Did the guy in New Orleans seal my fate for a good year by throwing that spell at my feet? Maybe so. Hope so.

Also, this is a pretty important birthday, by my thinking.

When I was a little girl, I probably had an idea of what my life would look like tonight. I have no idea if it looks like I thought it would. I haven’t gotten caught up in the trappings of a cultural idea, so much, of what I should be doing at my present age, as a writer, as a woman, as a wage earner and such. I don’t look the same as I did in my early twenties, and I’m okay with that. I’m glad, even. I have a line or two, but I earned them. I have a lot of grey hair, but that’s only less I have to bleach out to turn pink. Another perk I can’t help but feel like I earned.

So, maybe that’s where the real celebration is. Sure, I have made it to see another year of my life begin, but I’ve gotten here in my roundabout, adventurous, goofy way that is all my own and arrived with my way of moving through life and taking it all in and processing it in my way. I’m looking around my apartment as I write this and can’t help but smile as I see a collection of things that represent all of those adventures.

That’s good enough for me. It really is.