Was Sunday really three days ago already? Where is time going?
This past Sunday was a big day in my world. While I enjoy a lazy Sunday as much as the next twentysomething, most of my Sundays lately aren’t exactly relaxing. It starts with a morning run with or without Simon-dog, followed by hurried preparation to get to church before the husband plays the opening chords of the first song, and then promptly leaving after the service (without helping tear down, because I’m a sorry excuse for a staff member’s spouse) in order to beat the crowd to the grocery store before noon. How long I get to relax at home afterward depends on the time of my indoor soccer game – ranging from mid-afternoon to midnight.
This Sunday was particularly busy, due in part to a particular football game on television in the early evening, but also because it was my birthday.
I didn’t at all mind sharing my birthday with the Super Bowl. As I find adult birthday celebrations a little on the awkward side, it gave me a reason to get together with friends on my birthday without the pressure of “having a birthday party.”
Unfortunately, the Colts (whom I tend to root for when the Bears fail to make the playoffs) didn’t get the memo that a birthday gift was in order. Oh well. (Luckily, I have Illini basketball to pick up their slack.) But enough about my jocky sports-fan-ness.
I’m not yet certain what to make of 26, but I’m optimistic. It won’t take much for it to be a better year than 25, but there’s that whole aging thing I’m supposed to be wary of. Don’t read too far into that, it’s not like my clock has started ticking, but now that I’m over the mid-twenties hump I’m suddenly aware of how many years I have left until it does.
I blame Sally Albright. Truth be told, we have quite a lot in common.