So today is my birthday. It's also Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas, John Cleese and Theodore Roosevelt's birthday. But they already get plenty of press. My blog, let's talk about me.
I turn 46 today, which, doing the math, means I was born in 1974. My mother tells me the night after I was born, she watched Rhoda in the hospital - the episode where Rhoda gets married. My parents brought me home from the hospital on Halloween - trick, obviously.
Because of Covid, it's not an especially party-party kind of year - either for Halloween or my birthday. We haven't done an escape room in forever - that's my typical friend group activity. I had a great party for my 40th - but 46 is kind of in that chasm of "let's just hold out for 50". I did pick up some cake slices from Baked on 8th - they recently won a few Best of Nashville titles from The Scene this year, but I was a customer before they were a big deal, so. If I'm a smart woman, we'll hold the cake until tomorrow, as I have a physical with blood work tomorrow morning. And I think we all know it's going to be fugly. In for a penny, in for 20 pounds. At least.
My sweet sister sent flowers, and they're gorgeous.
And my pre-ordered copy of Fannie Flagg's newest The Wonder Boy of Whistle Stop arrived today. What are the odds that my favorite author would release a new title on my birthday. No complaints here, my friends.
Matt got me a new pair of converse low-tops in the much coveted maroon. My mother has a card en route.
Which, as I start talking about it - it's actually quite festive.
I am taking tomorrow off due to the doctor appointment - my plan, as such, is to get a few errands handled, read, nap...whatever. Not much, in other words. And that feels pretty perfect.
That's about it from me for now.
I'll keep you posted. But for now...
This is 46.