Breakfast at 35
It’s today… I mulled on what to write today, but I didn’t have anything prepared.
In the vein of useless New Year’s resolutions, my mind raced with things I’d do this year to make it the best yet. I’ll workout or knit or write or meditate or run or draw or blog everyday… but I don’t want to be disappointed.
I had toyed with doing The Compact as an extension of my non-yarn buying since August (which was violated for a hank of laceweight at Stitches). But I’m not sure I really want to set up that expectation for myself either.
It doesn’t really matter in the long run, does it? 35 feels no different than 25. Inside, I’m the same 16 year-old who was excited at seeing The Cure and worked at Dunkin Donuts. Only my paycheck is bigger, I have deeper friendships and I don’t worry about what I wear to school everyday. Oh, I have a man I love in a City I love, and a little black dog, too.
I guess I missed the maturity class that was supposed to kick in sometime in the past 5 years, ’cause I still don’t feel like a “grown” adult. And, that’s OK, too.
I’m happy. Really, really happy. And I hope you all have a happy my birthday, too.
All year long.