Yesterday was my friend’s penultimate birthday before she joins the 30-and-over crowd.
Everyone has an opinion about the annual tradition of recognizing your own birth. Some trumpet the celebration of life; others dread the inevitable encroachment of “old age”. Most of us likely fall somewhere in between. I find that as I write more and more death announcements (part of my day job), I’m reminded how genuinely lucky we are to see each year pass. I’m not trying to stealthily ascribe guilt or imply you aren’t making the most of your life; who needs that crap? No, I’m simply stating a fact that, every year, I choose to feel appreciation for another chance to make myself, and hopefully others, happy.
I believe wholeheartedly that age is relative. In many ways, I’m younger today than I was at 18 or 28. I’m also aging, and that’s got its perks too (hello house stocked with wine). I try not to participate in the phrase ‘what would I give to be __ again?’ because A) it doesn’t matter cause it aint gonna happen, and B) I wouldn’t go back and do it again for anything. We are who we are and simultaneously who we choose to be. I am and choose to be the me of right here and now: artist, brooder, lazy athlete, wine enthusiast, dog person, friend …
The painting I did for Miranda which speaks her mind to a T.
Some cute spoons I decorated in Miranda-approved colors.