Thirty Two.

I remember when I was sixteen or so, overhearing a conversation between one of my friends and her Aunt. “Next Friday is your birthday!”my friend exclaimed. Her Aunt rolled her eyes. “I just want the entire day to pass without paying any attention to it. I don’t even want to think about it.”

Right then and there was when I decided that I never wanted to have that kind of attitude about birthdays. I was going to be proud of every single year I was alive on this planet, I would squeeze every single ounce of opportunity, joy, and experience out of my days, my years. Hell, if the birthdays were going to come, I was going to be damn sure to earn them. And I was, without question, always going to celebrate.

Yesterday I turned 32. My day was utterly lovely, filled with the type of sparkle and wonder that should come when we tuck another year of life under our belts and start another one anew. Last night, as I sat with dear friends, lingering over margaritas and soaking up shared laughter, all I could think was how amazingly lucky I am – for every year, every day I’ve been given thus far. And for all that is ahead.

I love my thirties - just as I loved my twenties, my teenage years, and the twelve years prior. Maybe I sound a bit over-sentimental but I truly cherish and am grateful for each of these years. Because they are mine. And I’m having so much fun that I can’t imagine not stopping to celebrate once every 365 days.

For 32 only comes around once, you know. And I cannot wait to see how the year unfolds.