31 Years

Let me tell you something, turning 31 is not nearly as awesome as you think.  30, while it meant I was getting older, was kind of novel, kind of cool.  I mean, it had been a whole 10 years since I'd entered into a new decade.  People notice 30, whether they think it's awesome, or feel sorry for you.  31 on the other hand just cements the 30s in, without any of the radness.  When I was 10, my aunt Nancy had New Kids on the Block call me and sing their Happy Birthday song to me. I cried.  Didn't happen on my 31st. 

Still, it wasn't a half bad day.  I got to hang out with my Russell nephews and niece.  We burnt two entire batches of zucchini muffins, which were supposed to be my birthday cake.  I ruined the cream cheese icing, which I went out specifically to buy the ingredients for and ended up getting hit in the parking lot of Safeway in my brand new (to me) minivan.  Still, we ate the muffins, I ignored the dent, and I got sang to, not by the New kids, but by a bunch of kids I love so much more.

In the evening we went to our churches annual "Corn Bust."  I like corn.  I like busting.  It worked out.

And, when we got home, I opened my present from Jared, and couldn't have been happier:

My toes liked turning 31.  I will wear them everywhere.