The hour of my birthday strikes. I’m lying across the bed in my underwear, a two-sizes-too-small vintage Def Leppard shirt with holes on it. Nels is kissing me thirty-five times because that’s how old I am.
I’m tired from running errands most the day, then clapping and yelling for the Drag Show at the college (here’s a tiny bit of last year’s), then dancing a lot afterwards. I danced my ass off. For like, fifteen minutes. & I hurt my knees doing a few floor slides. I didn’t split my pants or anything, but I did get a considerable back tweak doing the Roger Rabbit in a dance circle.
The show was really beautiful. I’d suggested a friend as MC and she was absolutely fabulous. I also got to see a girlhood friend, the first person I met when moving to Grays Harbor, surprise-propose to her girlfriend via song. That was pretty… amazing. After the dance I went out with friends and had some wonderful food. If I wasn’t so tired I’d be writing all this eloquent stuff about it all.
But yeah. It was a good day, and a good evening.
Nels, dressed up for & checking the fit of his outfit tonight:
This moment finds me very sanguine about my birthday. 35 seems such an auspicious number. I have some wonderful things in my life.
My little guy:
I am very grateful for many gifts in my life, and when I awake to experience my birthday in earnest, I hope to have as lovely day as I usually do.