It was my birthday the other day. Normally I’m not one for taking stock on anniversaries, but a number of things swirling around have left me in a pensive mood. In addition to being a year older, my daughter recently attended her first semi-formal dance.

Short dress, high heels, boyfriend at the door, the whole magilla. Nothing too terrible there. She looked very beautiful, sweet and appropriate to an 8th grade dance.

I had an interesting conversation with my husband last night and discovered I am as finicky as a cat with a bowl of discount food.

I was explaining how I was having a hard time believing folks when they told me I was good at certain things. He said “Well you’ve been that way for the last twenty years.” I told him that since I had not mastered some of the skills, it would be presumptuous of me to say I was “good at something”.

I finished my last major deadline yesterday. This should be a cause for celebration, permission to take it easy and plan relaxing activities, but instead I have a sick feeling of fear. A low-level dread just this side of an existential crisis. This can’t be healthy.