on growing up.

On Sunday I turned 27. In the rankings of important birthdays, 27 is a pretty low on the list. It's one of those milestones that doesn't really mean much more than the fact that you're a year older.

I happened to have spent my birthday alone this year. Well, I had the company of a certain 62 pound mutt, but I generally celebrated the beginning of this new year of my life on my own. It made me realize a few things: 1) Window shopping is a great way to spend any day, even a birthday 2) Even at 27 you'll still feel like a child when you realize that you just want to feel special on your birthday, but don't 3) You're alone on your birthday? Kraft mac and cheese for dinner!

This isn't to say that I had a bad birthday. I heard from my friends and family, got the random Facebook posts, and generally felt the love. But still, it just didn't really feel like a birthday to me. As I thought this over Sunday night I wondered if this is how birthdays will feel, or at least how the uneventful milestone ones will feel. I know I just missed Andy, there's no denying that I would have been a chipper birthday girl if he was home, but maybe I was down about getting old?

My 26th year alive was incredible. I got married, bought a home, and Sprocket (I mean, Sprocket for crying out loud!). What's in store for this year? I guess anything. Really, anything can happen this year. It's our first summer in the new apartment, we're hoping to host Thanksgiving dinner this year for the first time, and maybe, just maaaaybe welcome a little ginger monster into the world.

So should I be down about my birthday? No. Am I allowed to be down that I spent it alone? Yes.

All this to say that I purchased three pairs of shoes yesterday and I feel a little bit better. Happy birthday, Mrs. Abramson.