It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to. I know those aren't exactly the words to that old song, but it's where I'm at today. It IS my birthday and I really do feel like crying. I really, truly do. It has nothing to do with aging or wrinkles, either, I swear. I actually like being smack-dab in the middle of my thirties, after all; finally feeling like I'm growing into who I was meant to be. No, this melancholy has more to do with loneliness and disappointment than anything else, and I'm not even sure why.
The loneliness makes sense, I guess, as my husband is hundreds of miles away. It would have been nice to get more than a birthday-morning phone call. A cuddle or kiss would have meant the world. That's all a part of long-distance love, though, and I know better than to dwell on the maudlin. Besides, we're meeting up in Las Vegas tomorrow. Shouldn't that make me excited?
The disappointment is what really baffles me. I'm not even sure how high I've set my expectations to make me feel so deflated. I didn't even have plans for the day, and yet it turned out to be pleasant enough - wine lunch with the roomie, followed by a lax night with the bestie. And still, I'm left feeling thoroughly bummed, like there should have been something more...
Maybe my work-induced exhaustion is just getting to me. Maybe I'll feel better in the morning. In any event, I'm ready to sleep this birthday off, and forget it ever arrived. Humph.
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