Nevertheless.
Today is my birthday. I am 33 years old today. I'm pretty sure. That's what a good friend told me, and I've known him since I was 10, so he probably knows.
I'm totally psyched because Chris and the boys got me an exercise bike that's small enough to fit in the house, so I can get back to working out. It has been FAR too cold to use my elliptical in the garage. My ass is paying the price.
I really, really have a hard time believing I am actually 33 YEARS OLD. That's tough. Wow. I still feel 17. No, really. I do not in any way, shape, or form feel like an adult woman. I guess C-section scars don't lie. My hips do, though. They are big fat liars. My boobs are fairly honest, though.
How I got from McBirthday to talking about my boobs, I have no idea.
Happy Birthday to me. And my niece. And, evidently, Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman. And Joan of Arc. And Kahlil Gibran. And Carl Sandburg. Yay for us!
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Suck on my crap