*Disclaimer: This post really isn't as emo as it seems at first glance. I promise. Please read until the end.
Birthdays, you guys. Amirite?
I used to love my birthday. I used to get super excited—to the extent of sporting an alphabet-bead necklace counting down the days—about it. I still get excited, but ever since I rounded that corner on 25, the excitement has been muted and the dread has seeped in a little.
I know I'm being silly. There are so many awesome things to look forward to in the future, many of which I can only do because I'm an adult and getting older. (Children with the man I love, trips to far-flung places, buying toys "because I can," etc.) But there's that annoying little voice inside that whispers "But you're getting older ..." each year as Dec. 12 rolls around. I want to punch that little voice in the face.
It certainly sounds like I'm complaining (#firstworldproblems), but really, what I'm getting at is that today I've made a conscious decision to try my hardest not to listen to that voice, and really enjoy each birthday as a start to a new year that could very well be filled with 365 days of awesome.
This past weekend was filled with friends and family and was a great way to start to that re-affirmed outlook on birthdays. I love celebrating with people, regardless of the occasion. Colt even made and decorated me a cake—the first one he's made ever.
Also, I just ate a Mama Murray-made birthday cupcake. For breakfast. Because I can.
Life just keeps getting better.
On a side note: Have any of you done/started a "30 before 30" list (or something similar)? I think I'm going to set one in motion for myself. I've got two years! Think of all the possibilities.