once the candles are blown

32. This is now the official number of years that I have been breathing oxygen on this planet. Somewhere in the vicinity of your mid-twenties, birthdays just stop becoming an enjoyable event. Toward your late twenties, they start becoming tinged with depression. By now, that tinge has become quite vivid. A decade ago, I was just graduating from college. And entering grad school. Things looked pretty bright. Still a lot of time to find the love of my life, find a job I loved, and make some serious money while doing it. But, alas, life just don't seem to work out how you'd like most of the time.

So here I sit. 32. Alone. Making peanuts. Back in college working for a degree that won't help me get further along. And to top it all off, I'm just feeling so old lately.

I spent a subdued birthday with just family this year. My mom, who's an incredibly wonderful lady, insisted that I blow out the candles on my cake. (She insists on making me, my three brothers, and one sister a cake every year for our birthdays, age and waist-line be damned...and candles are considered to be law). So, because of the required wish prior to blowing, I made my standard and long running secret plea...that this year be 'my' year. The year that everything comes together, and comes up roses. The fact that this has been an oft repeated and, as of yet, unfulfilled wish, I'm not holding my breath.

Rather, I just stuffed myself full of cake.