I love my birthday. Make no mistake, I don’t mind telling people my age or finding gray hair. But there is something about special dates–birthdays, New Year’s Day, anniversaries, weddings, whatever special day you choose–that lends itself to milemarkers and expectations.

Ten years on and I’m still working the same job. Hey, I like my job. I get paid enough per hour although I don’t work enough hours for it to add to much, but the work is fun and the hours are great mom-hours, but the younger people there often talk about the place as a weigh station, as not enough, and I feel a bit like a loser for staying in the same place for so long. But I don’t want to climb some career ladder. I want to publish my work. Of course, I’d like to make a real income too. Can’t have everything.

And of course many rejection letters later and still no success. Well, today I don’t care. When I die, my son can find all my books in binders and he’ll have something to read. That’s not so bad. At least he’ll have that because he’ll certainly have no memories of his mother being a good cook or housekeeper.

I know better, but I still feel that by my birthday I’m supposed to have ACCOMPLISHED SOMETHING. Whatever that means. Something other than making it through another year. Any fool can do that. Drives me crazy when people act like it’s a talent to live a long time (not that I’ve lived a long time…). It takes nothing to avoid being on the wrong plane, avoid the deadly disease, and avoid any number of other ways to die. Okay, maybe it takes a little talent to outrun someone trying to hurt you, but other than that…it’s all luck (the luck of someone being a little slower than you).

Okay, Happy Belated Birthday to me! (ha–can’t even manage to wish myself a happy birthday on time)…next time around I’ll be 40. What expectations will I have then?