Forty

Some of you may remember that about this time last year, I wrote a post called Thirty-Nine. I'm not linking it because it sucked. Don't read it. It was a list of 39 things I wanted to do while I was 39. So clever.

I got bored halfway through writing the list and started putting stupid stuff on it. I did go back and update some, but then I got bored with that.

Dumb.

And I mostly say dumb, because on the important things, I pretty much sucked it.

And now I have about three and a half hours left in my thirty-ninth year and I'm not writing another list. Forty is the year of action. Or sloth. I'm not committed.

I am forty years old and I am feeling like I need to do something. I feel like I am at the old shit or get off the pot stage,.I told Sean yesterday that I was busy righting the ship, and that's exactly it. I am getting my house in order.

I am horrible at responding to comments, and I owe you all an apology. I read everything, and appreciate everything, but I am lazy, lazy. Thank you for continuing to comment, despite me being an asshole.

I am horrible at posting photos. I am not a good photographer and I think Instagram looks like the shitty pictures my parents took in 1976. But I know people like pictures, so, sorry. Plus, I'm lazy.

I think thirty-nine worked out all right. My kids and my family love me and we're happy and healthy. I get to tell you stories and read yours. I hardly ever get a zit and Katie told me that, even though my backfat jiggles when I dance, I am in 'good shape for a woman your age'. 

Forty. Bring it.