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.