I'm thirty-three today, which is a middle-of-nowhere kind of number. I'm not extremely young anymore, but I'm not old yet. I'm not actually in my early thirties, but not in my mid-thirties either. Thirty-three is hard to define.
I was born on April 20, which is a groaner birthday for a number of reasons. For one, I share it with Adolf Hitler. Because of this, yucky things tend to happen on my birthday. Columbine is one example.
Four-twenty is also National Smoke Pot Day. I didn't know that until I was twenty-one and went to a bar for one of the first times. The guy at the door checking IDs laughed at me. I had no idea what he found so funny. "Four-twenty? Dude, is that seriously your real birthday? That's freakin' awesome, man!" I stumbled inside still clueless. My friend had to fill me in later.
But even though I'm neither old nor young, and even though I quite possibly have the world's worst birth date, I feel so thankful tonight.
I just came home from a wonderful dinner with my darling husband and my in-laws. My mother-in-law outdid herself on the dinner, and bought a chocolate gelato cake for dessert. They broke out some of their best red wine.
About a hundred friends near and far wished me happy birthday on facebook, which makes me overwhelmed and happy all at once. And tomorrow I get to register for my big birthday present: the SCBWI summer conference.
It's raining outside as I type this. I love the sound of rain on the roof, the earthy breeze that wafts through open windows. Young, old, or somewhere in between, tonight I'm so content, I could curl up and purr.