Remember when you're twenty and thirty seems like the edge of a cliff? Of course now Sheryl Crow has decreed that forty is the new thirty, so I have some reprive.
I'm thirty-three. As of yesterday. I went and saw the family, took my grandmother some flowers (her b-day is two days before mine). My mother gave me a stick. Ok, it was a little condiment spreader made of cherry wood. I love wooden kitchen utensils. There's something very tactilely pleasing about them.
My sweetie asked what I wanted for my birthday, and I said "clothes," so he graciously allowed me to drag him to a half-dozen stores over the weekend. I tried on a score of garments and bought nothing. This is not a good fashion season for me. Everything is high-wasted, blousy, droopy. I have a waist. I prefer to be tailored. I do not intend to have children, so why would I want to look pregnant?
Lately, I've had a yen for a 50's-style cocktail dress or sun dress; fitted bodice, full skirt. I was considering making one, but Trashy Diva has some lovely things. The trick is buying one to fit. My shoulders are rather broad from the tai chi training; my hips are a size or two smaller than my upper body. This means I have to take in every shirt and jacket that I buy, and forget about finding a dress off-the-rack.
I told the SP it didn't matter. I've gotten pretty much everything I ever wished for in the last year. When I make wishes now I just hope for things to stay as they are.
With less plaster dust, of course.
P.S.--We got all the drywall done this weekend. Sometime this week we're going to tape and mud. Hope the weather dries out a bit.