I have promised myself I will not cry this birthday. At least out of sadness. I'm not a good birthday person. Some people relish in the delight of being acknowledged. I pray someone will remember. Every birthday I cry. Because every birthday I realize I've "done nothing with my life." Which, although untrue, feels accurate. I haven't traveled enough, I'm not the artist I want to be, my love life is waning, my career looks like a door stop, and I realize I was much prettier the year before. It's not pretty, but it's what I do. So this year I've decided on acceptance. Acceptance of all things that plague each b-day with a frown. I plan on being content. Maybe not happy, but content. I haven't quite decided if I'll really celebrate it. Just go through the day with the mentality of gratitude for being alive and moving forward. I've traveled more than most, been to places I've seen in books and replanted myself on the map by pure impulse. I'm an artist in spirit, so even if I don't have pencils and a pad, I'll create. My love life is my own fault. Call it daddy abandonment issues, but I've finally decided solitude is not for me. I used to think of myself as an introvert. The extrovert in me is rethinking that. I'll be a wife, a mother, and build a family and revel in being domestic. And the career will come, even if it's by my own creation (Creative Director, CEO, why yes, thank you). And the prettiness...well, let's hope I haven't hit my peak yet.
I'll be content with my 29 candles. I'll celebrate 30.
