Last year, on my birthday, I wrote this - and I think that even though I didn't know it at the time, that moment very clearly marked the end of one thing, and the beginning of another.
This year, my birthday was - for lack of a better word - weird. It was my weekend with the kids, and a three-day weekend at that, so I came up with all sorts of grand plans. These, alas, ended up getting sidelined by a monster head cold, but on Saturday night I rallied, having planned a whole hibachi dinner-bowling fiesta for myself, the kids, Francesca, and my neighbor Margo and her daughters. And then, at 6PM, Francesca took one look at me getting ready to head out, all sniffles and patheticness, and suggested we take it down a notch.
Here's the part that got weird: By 6pm, I didn't actually want to go to the hibachi-bowling thing; I was sick and exhausted and half-asleep already. So when Francesca suggested we just do a low-key dinner somewhere nearby I immediately agreed...and then, just as immediately, started crying. Like, heaving.
