Another Trip around the Sun...

I wanted to be an author, so I
stole a blue box and ran away.

 Apparently when my sister asked me what my plans were for my birthday and I said:

1. To tell everyone I'm 30.

2. To tell everyone I'm 45.

3. To completely ignore it and hope it goes away like I did on my 40th birthday when I was in the US and Simon was still in the UK.

None of those have worked. Somehow, I can figure out the mojo for selling a book, getting a dog to eat breakfast, and making the internet magically start working again at home...but I couldn't avoid the march of time. You can see a photo of one of my last, desperate acts here, but the chameleon circuit wasn't the only thing that wasn't working.

As of today, I am Sally O'Malley, FIFTY YEARS OLD.

Someone tell my brain that when it comes back from wherever it goes when I walk into a room and forget why. Someone tell my body that when the aforementioned brain decides we need to jump up from the couch and then BAM oh, that's what gravity is...

Most people pontificate on the occasion of a milestone such as this. Y'all five loyal Lettuce Readers should know by now that I'm not most people. I'm barely one people, though there are lots of people...and Qatu, and elves, and dragonkind and AI drones and Irish Fae running amok in my head. It's like a badly stitched TikTok in there on a good day.

So I will leave with this thought: I am eternally grateful to the village that has raised me up to this age, and I look forward to the second half of this life with all the excitement and trepidation that comes with being fifty years old.

That's right, I'm FIFTY. FIFTY YEARS OLD. And I like to kick, and stretch, and KICK. (Oh, Molly Shannon, I"m so sorry.)