one week and counting
Birthdays mean more to me than New Year’s Eve. Or Valentine’s Day. Or pretty much any other day. That is my day. The day of my birth. When I was given life. The day I look at my life and each year think about what I have done, what I have not done, what maybe I should do more, what maybe I should do less, where I have come from — and where I wish to go.
Usually I can figure it all out, stay the course if I am wobbling, press the cause if I am not.
This year, I have not got all the pieces put together in my head yet. All the pieces are there. I have just not put them together yet in a pattern that makes sense. Partly because some of those pieces, I am not real happy with. I know what they are. I have just been avoiding putting them together and looking at what they mean combined into a whole — and what I must do now to stay the course and press the cause.
Some of it is not going to be fun.
It is time though.
[Doesn’t being an adult just really sometimes suck?]
After I do the work, there is wine and cheese waiting for me on the roof. That is the fun part. After you do all the head searching, all the figuring, where you have succeeded, where you have failed, what you need to do, where you need to go –
The first next stop is a rooftop garden, candles, friends, a bottle of merlot, and —
It is not a damn meeting you do not have to wear jeans you do not even have to look like a writer on your birthday you can wear any pretty dress you want.
Jeans get old.