nearing 34, only one day left to go.
I have eaten office birthday cake.
I have been sung to, off-key, twice.
I enjoyed an unexpected handmade gift from a new friend.
I have mopped up after my incontinent dog six times since coming home two hours ago.*
I have blown out two candles.
I have cleaned up spilled milk twice.
I have eaten brownie cake from my mother and daughter and am decked out in new jewelry.
I wiped two faces and a nose.
I have responded to a work email.
I accepted tickets to an ACLU fundraiser and will spend my birthday in a business suit listening to an acceptance speech by Diana DiGette. The thought of this pleases me.

I am not feeling young and irresponsible.

I have spent most of my adult life feeling like a child caught playing dress up in my mother’s shoes. Feeling I don’t know enough to fill the roles I found myself in. Too young to take good enough care of small children, too new to take care of my clients effectively, too inexperienced to be an advocate, to silly to be taken seriously.

This year I feel old enough to take care of the world.

How can that possibly be a good thing?

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* make that nine times since coming home 5 hours ago.

Many hours and episodes of 30Rock later (I had to do something to prevent me from getting nightmares from reading “The Dark Half.”)…

I think this is the first “holy fuck” birthday year.
I am turning fucking thirty four. 34. 3-4! What the fuck is up with that? I am not 34 years old! At max I am like 30. I am totally okay with being thirty. It’s a sexy, smart, woman of the world kind of age. 34 is having to watch how much you drink because you’ll actually get a fucking hangover after three seasonal beers. It’s continuing to eat the god damned office doughnuts while reminding yourself that your jeans don’t fit as well at they used to and actually deciding that you don’t care. 34 is chin hair. Chin hair. That’s right, 34 is watching in growing horror as your tweezers, once used only to shape your eyebrows, begin to move about the rest of your face and body in a complicated tour de force before leaving a shocking pile of small hairs on the bathroom sink. It’s buying contour wear and then convincing yourself it actually does make your clothes look better on you instead of going to the gym.

I am not handling this birthday well.

This morning things look brighter…

Maybe 34 is going to be my year. Maybe it’s coming to terms with all the responsibilities I have and deciding I am equal to them. Maybe the fact that I can no longer think off the extra calories is an opportunity to exercise more and get into better sahpe. I used to exercise all the time but have become remarkably sedentary since law school. This could be the year for me to carve out time for my health.

And everyone knows bearded women are damned sexy, how bad can chin hair actually be?