Happy Birthday to Me!

I'm just going to come right out and say it: I'm having a great day.

It's my birthday - I'm turning 29, and it's one of those milestone-lite days (I am nearly 30! Who is that in the mirror? I am so old, snore, blah blah blah, whatever), and it's been one of the nicest days in recent memory, period, and one of the best birthdays ever.

My life is pretty great - I have a family who loves me (I woke up to texts from both my parents, and got to have lunch with my sister and mom), a boyfriend who jumped on me at 7:15 this morning to snuggle me and whisper "happy birthday!" into my sleepy ears, a boss who gave me a bottle of champers, and a load of friends who are coming to a potluck at my place tonight.

I live in a city where the mayor can be chucked out of office, despite the pundits swearing up it down it would never happen, on bad governance. Where I can go dancing tomorrow night in an industrial club and next week at the AGO. Where I can waltz into a teeny shop in Kensington and emerge with fancy-ass dresses that fit my curvy body like a glove. I can get any number of fancy ridiculous-person sodas in the stores, and there are cats on the streets.

Two years ago, my birthday was spent stressing about a job interview the next morning; last year, I was starting a new job the next morning (2011 was a crummy work year, guys). And while both were spent with friends and loves, I didn't feel so good - I felt like I was trying to live up the Platonic ideal of The Perfect Birthday, and came up short each year. I've been plagued with this feeling since childhood, like birthdays are somehow a failure if that aren't the very best day of the year. And now that I've let myself off the hook for that, I can feel like today really is my special day.

My plants are healthy. My apartment is clean. I feel amazing, in a real, soulful way. I feel, for lack of a better word, totally blessed.

Thanks, everyone. You're all the best.