In my thirties
Several people this weekend informed me that now that I'm 31, I'm "in my thirties."
Apparently, 30, isn't 30's.
To celebrate, I did a few things.
First, I threw a fit and blamed E for my missing passport. Then I realized I was just transferring my lost passport to the reality of my lost dad and felt sheepish. Yes, a lost passport is a pain in the ass, but it's nothing compared to the pain of the reality that Dad's not gonna call this birthday.
So, I turned off my phone.
Oddly, it made it all better. After a fabulous birthday dinner and before an early bedtime, I checked my messages. I felt loved. I called them all back the next day when I was in a better mood.
In fact, the only soul who had to deal with me in my funk was E.
Saintly, that boy is.
In other news, I love the Cliff Bar Pace Team. Especially Rachel.
Due to Rachel's cajoling, conversation, encouragement, and will, I took my under-trained body on a less than 2-hours half marathon course despite being in sub-par shape and a pre-race dinner of a full four courses of amazing, decadent Italian food (with 4 cheese selections as dessert) plus imported and decanted wine at Acquarello. The servers and owners were willing to speak about food and share tidbits that were extra little birthday presents: the introduction to Gattinara, the queen to the king of Barolo and prince of Barbaresco, and the knowledge that the good Burrata arrives at A.G. Ferrari every other Saturday.
I wouldn't change any of it for the world, it was a perfect Birthday Weekend. (Rachel, Good luck with your book and I hope to see you again, soon!)
There is nothing like living it up before crossing the finish line with a nice time to make you feel young on your birthday. Plus, today, I called and visited those who'd contacted me in the last 2 days regarding my birthday. Because, predictably, I was over my funk.
At least for the meanwhile.