I love my birthday. Some people think it’s childish and others think it’s annoying, but I don’t care. Even on mellow, low-key years such as this, I still love my birthday. Even on melancholy, cold, rainy days like today, I still love it.

When it comes to my birthday I am perpetually eight years old, waking up extra early (6:30 this morning) and not resisting the urge to tell the world that it’s my birthday.

It’s my birthday! I’m 37 today.

It feels a lot like 36 except with worse hair, tiny powdered sugar donuts, and Quantum Leap reruns (for the uninformed Quantum Leap is to this bout of unemployment as A Different World was to the last).

Yesterday, BFK let Sister #4 and I share her birthday celebration. It was good, and I am now the proud, proud owner of the Dawson’s Creek Series Finale. Now I just need the first six seasons to complete the set.

Aside from a few years (26 and 35) of self-indulgent self pity, I generally try not to whine too much about growing old. Or rather try not to curse the aging process. Sometimes I do stop in amazement and think things like, “Holy Shit! X happened 20 years ago. I’m so old.” But that’s more of an exclamation than a curse.

So today I will be exclaiming. I’m 37!