Today is my birthday and I feel like bloggin'. Because if I don't, my reader might be disappointed. This could very well be the first birthday I can remember having that I'm not making a whole big thing out of. Remember the year I had everyone comment anonymously and I had to figure out who they were? And then the year I said I wanted as many comments as possible and I got hundreds? That was awesome. This year, I'm a little eh about my big day. Maybe it's cause it's on a Sunday, the first Sunday birthday I've had in 14 years. (Doesn't add up you say? Figure it out.) Or maybe it's because it's been completely overshadowed by the fact that it's tacked on to the end of one of the most emotionally draining weeks I've had in a long time.
This week was impossibly one of the worst weeks and one of the best weeks of my life at the same time, for two completely separate reasons. I won't delve into why it was one of the worst, but I will say why it was one of the best: because after three years and a lifetime of dreaming, I finished my book. That's right, I finished it. I've written a book. A whole book. It doesn't seem real, like something I really did, but I did! I wrote a book. And tomorrow I'm going to send it in to my publisher at which time we will set a release date. Wait, did you hear that? That was me peeing my pants with excitement. You know how people say something feels like a dream, like it can't be real? They're not kidding. This never seems real. I wake up every day thinking at any minute Ashton Kutcher's gonna pop out from behind my couch with a camera and tell me I've been Punk'd. That would be more believable than this.
So you can see how a little thing like a birthday might not be such a big deal in light of other, bigger things happening. Especially a Sunday birthday. Especially a Sunday birthday that I'm turning 32 on. Blech. Not being super over-the-top ridiculously excited about my birthday? I feel like such a grown-up.