That's right. It's about to be my birthday.
I'm getting older. No turning back, no stopping the aging process, no slowing it down.
But I'm at a good spot in my life, I am. I fulfilled that life goal of publishing my first book by age 40. (Okay, that's total bullshit. I made up that goal when I realized the book would be out several weeks before the next birthday, and congratulated myself for the achievement.) I love my husband and my kid (who, by the way, is looking tough these days with his first-ever buzzcut), and all is right with the world. Well, okay, that's not true—but within this little corner of the world, things are just fine.
And a history of sun avoidance means my skin doesn't show my years. So happy thirty-eleventh birthday to me!