I always get kinda thinky on this day. Don't mind me; it'll pass. It was just a day picked by my mother's obstetrician, but somewhere along the way, along the years, it became 'my' day.(Hey, I was breech, and my mother was tiny. They took no chances…and you in the back, the one that just piped up and said "Even from birth you were determined to show your ass!" -- I heard that, you little prankster. No cookies for you!)

Tonight, while I was performing my sweating-moose impression on an elliptical trainer (you have NO idea how difficult it is to keep the horns out of the way of fellow exercisers!) I realized something:

Twenty-seven wasn't half bad.
No, actually, now that I think about it, twenty-seven was actually a good year.
Come to think of it … twenty-seven was somewhere between a rockin' good year and a good little stomp through three hundred and sixty-five days.

How often is it that we can look back on a year of the life we're living and say, "I did something right?"

In between my grumblings about the sweating-moose impression and the frustration of knowing that my annoying hormonal cycle means that I managed to (temporarily) gain weight this week, I caught myself daydreaming and realized that in the year of twenty-seven, I lived.

I really didn't have a clue what I was getting into when I bought a gym membership. I made mumbles about trying to "change my life" and now - surprisingly enough - am shocked to realize that, given determination and the passage of time, I've actually managed to do so.

When I opened my daydreaming eyes and looked in the mirror tonight, I realized something: "Oh, hell, I think I've grown up." While nice in theory, I feel such a realization calls for drastic remedial action.

(Does working TromaDance in January count? 'Cause I'm doing that.)

For a few years I had a tradition of trying to spend my birthday somewhere interesting. Since my travel money is going into an extended Colorado/Utah trip around TromaDance in January, I can't afford to do that.

Instead, I'm contemplating a repaint of the guest bedroom: blue. A very pale blue.

I like to mark my birthdays. Something permanent. Something unusual. A day of change, in the hope that the rest of the year will follow suit.

Here's to twenty-eight…and Darren, should you ever find this site, happy birthday to you too, cousin.