The Best Birthday Ever

I hate my birthday usually. It comes the day after Christmas and always feels like an afterthought, or like the afterparty that drags on way too long after all the umph has gone out of the evening.

But every once in a rare while, the day surprises me. I expected to feel somewhat depressed--if only deep down in the depths of my soul--that I was turning 34, with all that means and in the context of all that's happened. One year closer to the fertility Styx of 35. One more year of failure and loss.

Fortunately, that's not what happened. It was unseasonably mild, so my husband and I went for a long walk down country roads near my folks' farm, up an old eroded lane that passes huge mossy boulders and (with the wet year they've had) rushing streams, up to a beautiful, cedar-lined road running along a high ridge. You can see for at least ten miles up there.

When we got home, we had Mexican-esque food. You know, the tortillas and beans and guac of the Midwest. Then I unwrapped my presents, to discover my folks had gotten us a night at this 150-year-old log cabin up the road, way back in the woods.

So my guy and I had a lovely night together, after the family came over to poke around the lovely little place, eat ice cream, drink champagne, and light hurricane lamps. There was a jacuzzi, and reading by candlelight, and a warm morning filled with the squawking of wild turkeys.

Here's to a better year ahead.