Tomorrow is my birthday. (Well, it’s 11 p.m., so actually it’s about an hour from now.) I’ll be 33 years old. Which, quite honestly, is really not a big deal at all. It seems as though you reach a point in life where the only birthdays you pay attention to are the ones that either end in a 5 or a 0, and all of the in between ones are sort of… whatever. Yeah, it’s my birthday. Meh.
The only significant thing I can come up with about this particular birthday is that I’m now the age that my dad was when he & my mom got married. (My mom was a young lass of 23 at the time; 10-year age gap between them.) When I was little, I thought he was soooo old. I mean, eww gross, my mom married an old man. Nice, right? Actually, come to think of it, 33 is also the age that Dave was when he and I got married. Huh. Weird.
Dave has made some noises about my present, so I’m not sure what he’s going to have in store for me. I haven’t even tried to guess, because if someone has gone to the trouble of planning a surprise, I don’t want to guess and ruin it. I told him he didn’t have to get me anything, because I’m a good wife like that. (He’s totally laughing at that sentence, btw.)
The only big thing happening for my birthday is that my brother and his girlfriend are driving over from Charlotte for the weekend. I’ve never met her, but she sounds nice, and I’m sure it’ll be a fun visit. Technically they aren’t coming until Saturday morning, which is the 17th, so really, it has nothing to do with my birthday and everything to do with the fact that they wanted to go someplace for the weekend since they have Monday (MLK Day) off from work. But it should be fun. Even though it means I’ll be frantically cleaning the house all day tomorrow in preparation for their arrival (sheets need to be washed, guest bath needs to be scrubbed, etc.). Not exactly my ideal way to spend my birthday, but oh well. A spotlessly clean house can be my birthday present to myself, right?
So, yep. Thirty-three. There it is.