My, how time does fly. It blurs right by, scarcely giving your mind chance to catch up.
With that, I’ve been giving my mind a stern talking to: You’re no spring chicken anymore. Forty is very serious business . . . very serious, indeed.
Down the list I went, taking inventory of all I had hoped to accomplish by (dare I say?) middle age—accomplished nary a thing. And let’s not forget the myriad of horrible, no good, very bad dates I’ve been on. Wretched luck, that.
So it was, by January of this year, I was determined to be depressed by this date. Surely if a birthday demanded a blue funk, this would be it.
Alas, as the year wore on I realized there’s been more good than bad. I do love a good underdog story. And cake.
Not to mention, decades are a lot like versions—if you do it right, each one should be a little better than the one before.
With that, here’s to another year, another decade. I do wish I could invite you all over to toast the possibilities in grand fashion. I might even share my cake (though that might be pushing it). I hope you’ll celebrate all the same—raise a glass, eat a delectable something sweet, and laugh ‘til it hurts. . .
Happiest of weekend wishes, to you!