February 1st was my 47th birftday day. Hooray! I survived another year. And… ?
I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. “Boo-hoo. Poor me.” It’s just 47 isn’t a noteworthy year—like 21, 30, 40, 50, etc. In other words, I’m simply a year older. So what? At this point, i.e. midlife, and after a “widowmaker” heart attack at 32, survival is about as good as it gets.
(there’s going out to eat several times on other people’s dime.)Continue reading “Happy Birftday Day, Poo Poo Pants”