Today is my birthday. I am now 28 years old.
As I have been sorting through piles and piles of photos in the evening, I have been trying to remember what I projected my 28th year would be like when I was younger.
When I was 12, I wanted to be veterinarian. Or an author, looking at a pile of books with my name on them.
At 18, “artist” came into the picture — in the future I would surely have a studio filled with big canvasses.
At 22, a Ph.D. in history seemed moderately likely.
Last year, I wanted 28 to involve a new job for Josh, some illustration projects, and some things that haven’t happened yet.
You know the really fabulous thing, though? Nothing I’d imagined was as good as what I got. I’d trade an art studio for our little apartment any day, and I’m so glad that I’m not wading through a thesis on medieval history right now. My younger self couldn’t even imagine a husband who stayed up late to pack a special birthday lunch (and even stuck in a dollar bill for a soda).
At the rate things are going, I think 28 is going to be great.
(Family: the photo at the top is the incredibly dorky one I mentioned at dinner on Sunday. Wow.)