Thirty seven is one of those in-between birthdays. Thirty five marks the turning point to 40, 39 is the precipice. 37 has no particular relevance, and is therefore a perfect occasion for quiet reflection.
On Friday the office staff gathered to present me with a hilariously humiliating Little Stuart card, an adapted poster from the Stuart Little movie, with my face superimposed on the mouse’s head. The head shot was taken at the staff Christmas party, long after we ran out of wine, but before all the Blue was consumed. I also got a huge Sponge Bob cake, complete with bubbles. George Bush and the religious right would have blushed.
The weekend was bright. I had 3 birthday cakes, lots of time with the kids, an evening dinner by a crackling fire with friends, and a two hour bath. I finished a book, and started another, and ran 5k on the slushy canal. Winter seemed to break on Sunday; people looked up and smiled a lot. A guy posed in skates and a kilt with the Hill in the background. Jasper sang Happy Birthday about 5 times. We went tubing at Mooney’s Bay, and spent a lot of time on the floor in the sun. I’m quietly slipping toward forty and feeling fine.