Another year older and I say, fft! Who cares?
I'd take a picture of myself to record the momentous occasion, but I am sitting in my office wearing a leopard print bathrobe with sleep gook in my eyes. Not a pretty picture at any age.
Last week with my Sunday School class, my sweet little ten year olds wanted to know how old I was going to be. I stupidly told them to guess. With kids, you should never have them rattle off numbers. Apparently I look roughly seven to twelve years older than I am. Didn't think I looked that old, but, hey, I learn something new every day.
My sons know how old I am turning. They didn't need to guess, however their problem stems from not blabbing it to the world. If we go out, they'll tell any Tom, Dick and Harry that their mom just had a birthday and she's an old fart. Sweet.
Personally, I am loving my birthday. Why? Last year my husband showed up on my special day with a bathroom scale and foot scrub, because nothing says "happy birthday" like a scale three days post Thanksgiving. This year, he wisely got me a wheat grinder. Sounds boring, right? It's not. It's a huge step up from last year and I have a good feeling that I am finally going to smack down whole wheat bread and bust its nose with fresh ground wheat flour. I'm thinking I'm going to get it to rise this time.
Anyway, here's to turning a whopping 32 today. Woohoo!