Get thee behind me, hubris.

I have been fond of saying that it has never rained on my birthday. Well, here it is, the 22nd anniversary of my 39th birthday, and the sky is all puckered up out there. I guess I can handle it raining once every 61 years. Somehow, I expected that when I woke up this morning I would look like Ma Kettle, all gray and lumpy. Or Helen Gurley Brown, a withered cinnamon stick. And I am delighted to report that I am still me, love handles and saddle bags intact, all tan courtesy of Neutragena, bouncing around. I measure my agility by my ability to put on my underpants standing up. As long as I can still do that, I am cooking with gas. My plans for today include ODing on coffee, with a 20 oz non-fat latte from my favorite barista joint, and a croissant to go along with it, then a trip to Sebastopol, my birthplace, to visit my parents and collect my gift, and a quiet sojourn to Barnes and Noble with my laptop and my current Jennifer Cruisie novel (I am reading Fast Women again, I found it in the piles of books under my desk when I retired). This woman of leisure thing is outstanding. And how wonderful that it takes so little to make me happy; a small black and white dog, a 4.5 lb. laptop and a paperback book.