I woke up this morning with a swollen uvula. It’s a strange sensation. Feels like I have a loogie to hock, but it’s attached to the roof of my mouth. Disgusting, eh?
Much to do today, in spite of my throat woes. I need to pick up a gift for Rebecca. What to get a seven year old? I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with the perfect thing. Truth is, there’ll be around 30 people at this afternoon’s shindig, which means plenty of competition when it comes to gift giving. I’m thinking maybe a skateboard, but then again, she said no boy stuff. So I can’t put myself back in my seven year old shoes. All I wanted then was boy stuff–fishing gear, mostly. Reckon I’ll be hanging out at Target for a while today.
And speaking of birthdays, next week I’ll turn 33. I’m not sure what to think about that. I’m getting old and I don’t feel like I act as though I’m in my thirties, if that makes any sense. I always looked to the thirties as the age of maturity. Shedding the spontaneous skin of the twenties and settling down, into a job and a house and kids. I’ve got a job. That’s something, right? I’m feeling a sort of nostalgia. I’m missing the twenties and all the opportunities I passed up.
Geez, I’m depressing myself. I’ve slipped into some sort of Holdenesque harangue.
Alright. Time to get moving. It’s Saturday, after all. A day for doing stuff. Need to get dressed, get some coffee and run some errands.
Boy oh boy.