In which I become prime

I’m 31 today. 30 was almost like still being in your 20s. 31 you have to admit that no. You’re in your 30s. If I were a professional gymnast, I’d be far past my best days. If I were a baseball player, I’d be in my prime. I’m old enough to be in Congress (and I was by my last birthday), but still too young to be President. And, unlike our current incumbent, I actually WAS born in Africa.

All I can say is that if my 30s pass as quickly as my 20s did, I’d better start writing that post now. I mean, my 20s lasted for roughly as long as two classes of Geometry my sophomore year of high school.

While I’m sitting here at work being 31 instead of 30, my mother-in-law is repainting my kitchen. And mud room. And bathroom. And possibly hallway if she gets ambitious. I think the five gallon drum of paint was a mistake — she sees it as a challenge.

I’m having a good day at work, getting to do some fun stuff that’s out of the ordinary for me.

My husband sent me flowers.

I’m wearing a swooshy pretty skirt that cannot survive close proximity to children, but that’s ok because I’m at work! Drinking coffee and being all important! My coworkers managed to surprise me with the cake, even though we’ve had “surprise” birthdays every birthday for seven years now!

So, all in all, a good day to be 31.