(unless I am very, very lucky and/or advances in medicine explode in the next decade or so)
Last week I turned 29, the same age my mother was when I shot out of her womb. You have no idea how immature that makes me feel, because unlike my mother, I am not, at this grand age:
- able to deal with a financial crisis without phoning my dad
I’ll spare you dialogue about my early mid-life crisis, and skip ahead to what I actually did for my birthday. On the actual day, I had a really long and shitty in-service day at school. It involved a lot of despair, and I didn’t bother reminding anyone that it was my birthday, instead wishing to slip out of the building as quickly as possible at the end of the day (success). Upon returning home, I got changed and left for spin class, where I was shouted at and made to sweat obscene amounts. Then I went home to shower and go to bed. Rock and motherfuckin’ roll, am I right?
The one thing I left out of the ultra depressing paragraph above is the surprise birthday present from he who has hitherto been referred to as Ian, but is now to be known as ‘Ultimate Boyfriend’. Awaiting my arrival home after school, THIS is what I was confronted with in my bedroom:
I was speechless. Hands down, this is one of the best birthday (and Valentine’s, I am told) presents I have received. Unfortunately, as I am training for a marathon that will be happening in less than two months, I don’t really have much time or energy for any kind of exercise on the weekend that doesn’t involve my long run, so I haven’t had the chance to test it out. Also, the weather has been crap-tastic. However, in a week’s time I only have a 10 mile race since it’s a drop down week, so I can totally try this sexy machine out on Saturday. I. Am. Pumped.
As a side note, I uploaded this photo to Facebook with the caption:
I think I can safely say Ian is an amazing boyfriend, and he may have just secured a Valentine’s blowjob. Happy Birthday to me!
Once he realized the photo was online, he showed his colleagues without realizing what I had written, only to be pulled aside by his boss to be told how inappropriate it was to buy gifts for sexual favours. In jest.
Speaking of weekends, the weekend after my birthday was when I celebrated with friends. We went to a local pottery painting cafe that usually caters to children’s parties, and painted portraits of each other onto plates. We all picked a name out of a hat and had two hours to paint our victim onto a plate that they could take home and cherish forever. Here we are, hard at work:
I was able to pick up the finished plated on Tuesday, and they are much more vivid. Good for colour, less good for humorously terrible artistic skills. And yes, Dylan morphed in George Michael during the painting process so Grant added a gold hoop earring and ‘FAITH!!’:
This weekend ‘Ultimate Boyfriend’ and I are heading to Edinburgh for his sister’s 40th, then I have a long run of (hopefully) 21 miles on Sunday with some friends. For the first time this year I have actually managed some mid-week runs instead of just stuff at the gym, so I’m hopeful that my calf is slowly getting better, with management. It also means I might feel less guilty if I don’t nail 21 miles…