When you read this, I will be 35. I’ve set it to post at the exact hour of my birth, because I have a widget that lets me do just that and this amuses me.
Still, 35. Dante Italy’s answer, or rather, prequel, to Milton – started the entire epic Divine Comedy with the joys of turning 35:
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
[Many, many versions in English here]
No. No sighing. Enough sighing. I have all my limbs and most of my reproductive organs. I have a damn fine husband. I have a damn fine husband who can cook. I have a job and a place to live and 100% cotton sheets and a birthday cake. I have a wide-screen hi-definition television. I have freshly shaved legs. I have a MacBook Pro. I have friends who are so amazingly sweet, funny, cute, intelligent, wise and generous it’d melt the heart of a stone weasel. I have new polka-dot undercrackers. I have ringlets and a curvy, muscular back and elegant hands and feet. I have a vast and highly amusing soap-opera of a family. I have gin and bitter lemon in the fridge, for when the family get too amusing. I have a glass of cold white wine right here. Or did have. I think I drank it. I am not being attacked by a leopard, and I do not have to go to Hell and chat to bleeding trees unless I become seriously unwise about my drug choices. This that I am trudging through is merely Purgatory, and therefore one day it will stop. Meanwhile, I have a life. I have a good life. I will now go forth and make a determined attempt to enjoy it.
Did I mention I’d been drinking?