Another birthday has come and gone. Meh.
Actually, Saturday night was amazingly fun - dinner out with my ladies. I wish one of us had a birthday every week because we have such a great time when we get together. They spoiled me, as always, not only with their lovely and thoughtful gifts, but with their presence, love, and laughter.
Monday, my actual birthday, was underwhelming. SB and I had lunch together, which was great, then in the evening we did a rousing round of groceries. Probably my least favorite thing in the world, and there we were for two hours grocerizing. Ugh. We made up for it Tuesday night by visiting a French restaurant I've been dying to try for months and months. The food was fantastic, plus it's bring your own wine which is always a bonus.
And that's the story of my birthday. SB asked me yesterday when I was going to blog again, and I said I would when I had something nice to say. And those are all nice things. Fantastic things. But my heart is hurting.
I have one more year to thirty, which is possibly the most depressing sentence I've typed in my whole life. I never thought turning thirty would bother me, but now as it approaches, and I take stock of my life, this is not where I thought I'd be. I may not be the most ambitious person, but it doesn't mean I didn't have goals for myself, and as thirty approaches those goals seem ever so far away, and I feel completely jammed up in a life that is totally preventing me from even taking a step in the right direction. I know I have a lot of good things, and a lot of great things, but I'm not who I want to be, and sometimes nothing is worse than being disappointed in yourself and feeling like you can't change it.