Yesterday I turned 39. I'm trying to decide if I feel any different. Nope. Although, I was already feeling kind of old. I think it's because of winter and a cold that just won't quit, though. I hate winter. I hate snow. When I was a kid I loved snow. We didn't have as much in NC as we seem to here, but it was fun when we did.
The year I turned 16 we had a massive snow storm (it was no Snowmagedon or Snowpocalyspe, but still massive by NC standards). I think we were out of school for nearly a week. A group of parents dragged a metal trashcan out to the middle of the road at the bottom of the our street and built a fire so they could stand around in relative comfort while the kids marched up the hill and came sledding right back down. It was AWESOME. Even more awesome was the teenage night sledding that went on.
For my birthday my best friend gathered up a group of neighborhood kids (mostly boys - it may be my selective memory, but I actually can't think of any other girls besides the two of us, but there must have been) and we drove around to all the best hills. My mother would be horrified to hear this, good thing she doesn't read my blog. My dad had given us the express instructions to definitely not get in anybody's car and drive anywhere in those road conditions. But man, it was fun.
It was a great birthday - even though I had to wait a few extra days for the roads to thaw before I could take the driving test for my driver's license.
Usually I love my birthday, but yesterday wasn't the best day ever; I spent much of it in the cold waiting on the furnace repair guy. And I didn't do anything remotely irresponsible, unless you count eating a thick slice of the Raspberry-Laced Vanilla Cake made with lots of real butter.
Next year I think there has to be some sort of party. I want to go back to loving my birthday.