Tomorrow is my twenty-fifth birthday, which is hard to believe. After all, twenty-five years equals 9,125 days, give or take a few leap years. It is one-quarter of a century!
I have never been big on birthdays. When I was little the birthday song made me cry. I hated when everyone turned their attention to me. My cheeks turned pink, my lips quivered, and, with tears welling in my eyes, I buried my face in my mother's lap, refusing to surface until everyone grew sufficiently distracted by other things. This occurred every birthday for many years. My poor mother!
The plan this year, besides not crying, is to spend as much relaxing quality time with my husband, perhaps visit the Carnegie Science Center, meet up with our best Pittsburgh friends for dinner, and visit my wonderful grandmother-in-law for a bit of ice cream.
That was my only real birthday request: I want ice cream. Any flavor will do.