I still find it pretty hard to believe that I'm actually that old. I mean, really? 43? That seems so impossibly grown-up, and I don't feel grown-up at all. I feel like I'm just pretending (badly) to be a grown-up...
Despite drinking too much of this delight last night:
I received more wonderful birthday wishes through the post, via Twitter and via Facebook, all of which warmed my heart and made me feel loved.
The girls and I had roast chicken for lunch, followed by a tarte à la framboise topped with chantilly, with candles and the girls singing in French and English.
It was a fairly low-key birthday, but a surprisingly good day - particularly given how miserable and crap I've been feeling lately.
The melancholy is starting to return, of course, now that the "big day" is over, but I'm thankful for this day, even if we didn't do much, even if (to be totally peevish and ungrateful) I would have preferred a real cake to a raspberry tart (however nice it was), even if it would have been nice to go out and do something rather than spend the afternoon wading through a translation about Czech communism.
I'm grateful for all the birthday wishes I received - more than I ever have before, all so very much appreciated and savoured.
I'm 43. That's pretty much mid-40s, isn't it? Holy crap.
Every year, I seem to say that the previous year wasn't a good one but that I have hopes for the new one. Well, it would appear that Pat Monahan and the guys from Train have picked up on that - this song (though clearly about Pat Monahan's real life), or at least the chorus of it, could have been written for me!