They Say It's Your Birthay

It's my birthday.

As if I didn't already feel old, Anthropologie sends me birthday greetings in this thin, pink type so teeny that I had to squint and smoosh it up against my nose to read.

And so it begins. Aging blows.

This is a significant birthday, and I feel like I frittered away those years before motherhood — when I had a not rockin' but definitely more toned bod — in lame clothes. I've finally come into my own, fashion-wise (I still feel like an insecure 15-year-old in braces for most parts of my life). I know what I like, I know what I look good in, I pay attention to the trends, but that ol' clock is ticking. A different biological one. Nearly every morning I pull on an outfit and have doubts: Is that skirt too short? Is this dress too.... young? Does it look like I'm trying too hard? Nothing ages a gal faster than trying too hard.

So, I'm going to take a deep breath, blow out those candles — hopefully without needing puffs of oxygen — and hope that my black, ruffled skirt (at two inches above the knee, allegedly too short for women my age) still looks OK.

Oh and while I HATE having my photo taken and don't believe in showing my face in blog photos (I like the aura of mystery and, quite frankly, the focus is on the outfits) it seems like the right thing to do today. I know I like seeing the people behind the posts. So, this is me in a picture I like that my talented sister-in-law Kiera took. The handsome gent to the right is my little dude who assures me he still loves me even though I "spray painted" my hair black. Yeah, that's another thing that ages a gal fast — lots o' gray.