For many years, I struggled with trying to be a “good” person. I was nice to people I didn’t particularly like; attended baby showers and jewelry parties even though I didn’t care for babies nor wore fancy jewelry; even went to church when all I wanted to do on Sunday was sleep in. Even with these Herculean efforts, I still beat myself up that I wasn’t doing enough. Wasn’t nice enough. Could’ve offered to make the centerpieces for the stupid baby shower. That kind of thing.

I had a revelation last year that changed my life. I was sitting at a friend’s house, watching a wonderfully terrible B movie and taking notes because I had to review it, but losing my place in my notes because I kept laughing, when someone broke out the gourmet cupcakes. These things looked like manna from Heaven: plump, moist cakes in flavors like chocolate coconut chip and peanut butter fudge swirl, topped with perfectly sculpted sugary goodness (“frosting”), and my internal dialogue went haywire. You can’t eat that. There are more calories in one of those cupcakes than the average human being needs to consume in a week . . . but if you don’t have one, the person who brought them will be insulted. YOU should’ve brought them. Shame on you for not being thoughtful enough to bring gourmet cupcakes!

I know it’s stupid. Bear with me here.

As I sat on that couch, beating myself up and almost missing the line in Throg where the father hands the son a giant stone and says “Here’s the rock we found you under,” a new voice piped up in my head. A sane voice. A rational voice. And Rational Voice said: I want a cupcake. Let’s eat.

Negative Voice tried to pipe up. But the calori—

Shut up. The chocolaty wonderfulness that cupcake will infuse in our soul is worth every stinking calorie. I liked the way Rational Voice was thinking.

Are there enough cupcakes for everyone? You shouldn’t have one if there aren--

Negative Voice was drowned out by the sound of me stuffing my face with a cupcake. And it was good.

That was the very moment when I gave up on trying to be a better person. As I licked the chocolate-coconut frosting from my fingers, I realized that the one person who was constantly nagging me to improve on myself was me. Why couldn’t I just accept myself for who I was, flaws and coconut-chocolate smeared face and all? Wasn’t I good enough?

Things changed after that. I was done trying to improve myself. Every morning, I used to beat myself up for drinking too much coffee. Now I know that four cups of coffee a day is a perfectly acceptable. You’re not shooting heroin, Rational Voice says. “Darn tootin’,” I reply. (Here’s the thing about Rational Voice: not only does she make me feel good about myself, she never picks on me for talking to myself, nor for using phrases like “Darn tootin’.”)

I made some other changes, too. I stopped accepting invitations to baby showers and jewelry parties and after-hours networking events and day trips to places that bore me to tears. I didn’t bother with excuses, I just said “No.” I cut some people out of my life that were toxic and parasitic. Whenever someone complains that we don’t talk on the phone or see each other enough, instead of apologizing, now I say “Well, you can visit with me now instead of complaining, or you can not see me at all. How about that?”

Perhaps it’s selfish. The thing is, women are raised in this society to think of everyone else but themselves. I’m tired of acting that way. Someone’s got to put me first. And who better than me?

I no longer try to be a “good” person. I’d rather be a happy person. So if you’ll excuse me (and if you won’t, it doesn’t matter anyway), I’m eating the cupcake.

I’ve never been particularly attracted to the type of person who demands the spotlight. Growing up in the '80s, it was not the showboating Simon LeBon or sexy John Taylor who kept me tuning in to watch Duran Duran videos on MTV; it was the quiet keyboardist in the background who kind of looked like a girl that caught my interest. The same held true for movies and television. It was not River Phoenix who inspired me to watch Stand By Me seventeen times; I wanted to know more about the guy playing River’s older brother. You know: the actor who got approximately six seconds of screen time. Whatever happened to that guy?

I decided to take the time and investigate what, indeed, had happened to some of my favorite actors you have probably never heard of.

1. Bradley Gregg

With his dark curls and wide eyes, this seldom-seen actor’s appearances on the big screen always made my teenage heart go pitter-pat. This was the man who made the aforementioned role of Eyeball Chambers in Stand By Me unforgettable (in my book; others seem to have forgotten him entirely). He popped up in minor roles throughout the '80s, including as Phillip Anderson (the puppet guy) in Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors and as Sean O’Brien in the Lonesome Dove TV miniseries. You remember—the kid who was killed in spectacular fashion by water moccasins.

Where is he now?

Mr. Gregg dropped off the acting map, having only appeared in four minor roles after 1997. Incidentally, this is the same year that he has stated he found God. He started a film and video production company called Eventide Fields to make movies about how wonderful God is.

What? No drug problems, jail time, or syphilis scandals? This is not how I expect my teenage heartthrobs to wind up. I’m a bit disappointed.

2. Peter DeLuise

Back before Hollywood started making really crappy movies based on ’80s shows, tarnishing the reputation of television in a decade that really wasn’t that bad, there was an awesome little show on the up-and-coming Fox network called 21 Jump Street. While most girls my age were swooning over Johnny Depp in this ensemble piece, it was Peter DeLuise, playing Depp’s partner Doug Penhall, who had me giggling. He then went on to "star" (I use the term loosely) in Stargate SG-1, then disappeared. I thought.

Where is he now?

Peter has continued to act steadily in some really minor roles (“Witness #1” in Smile of April, for instance), never quite achieving the fame his costar found.
DeLuise is reportedly directing television shows, and did have a cameo in the 2012 movie 21 Jump Street. If I were to be honest, I’d tell you that the movie was a festering boil of stinking pus, but did I mention Peter DeLuise had a cameo in it? The teenage girl who still resides deep in my dark soul let loose a high-pitched squeeeee when he showed up on screen.

Also, DeLuise is now losing his hair, but does not shave his head. Yet another teenage crush to disappoint me.

3. Ian Ziering

Beverly Hills 90210 started airing when I was seventeen-year-old girl. I was 100% their target demographic. I missed nary an episode.

At the time, it was not the cocky and crazy Steve Sanders, played by Ian Ziering, who made me all gooey inside. I was a Jason Priestley gal, having adored him since his minor role as Tober in a 21 Jump Street episode. And I’m not gonna lie: Luke Perry was pretty dreamy, too. In my mind, Ziering was just there as the token blond to offset the other two dreamboats’ sideburns.

Then, a funny thing happened. 90210 ended, and Priestley and Perry faded off into that good night, banished to minor TV roles, failed sitcoms, and B movies. And Ziering began to pimp himself with the glee and gusto of a child who has just discovered that pudding not only tastes good, but is fun to fling, too.

Where is he now?

Ian (that’s eye-an, NOT eee-an) has been acting in bad television (Son of the Beach), good cartoons (he was the voice of Harry Osborn in the 2003 Spider-Man series, and Vinnie in Biker Mice from Mars), and the BEST made-for-TV movie series EVER: Sharknado and Sharknado 2: The Second One. He’s happy to pop up on reality television, making it to the semi-finals of Dancing with the Stars in 2005, and currently butting heads with Geraldo Rivera on Celebrity Apprentice. What I like most about this man is that he always, always, seems to be having the time of his life.

Upon meeting Ian Ziering in late 2014, my life came full circle. “Hi,” I said. “I’m your demographic.”

“Hello, demographic,” he said, flashing a wide grin, appearing for all the world to be having the time of his life among aging wrestlers in a crowded, body-odor-reeking convention. Jason Priestley and Luke Perry were but faded teenage memories. As an adult, I was now a full-fledged member of #TeamIan.

There you have it. In case you’ve lain in bed at night wondering what ever happened to the guy that chased River Phoenix on top of a train in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (hint: that, too, was Bradley Gregg), wonder no more. Eventually, we all grow up and find new things to interest us. (Sort of. Go #TeamIan!)

My birthday is next week. When I was younger, this would be a week-long reason to overindulge in adult beverages. Now that I’m older, it’s a week-long excuse to eat frosting right out of the can. It turns out that as you get older, your priorities change . . . for the better.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that this year, I will be turning the same age as both Elvis Presley and Bobby Kennedy—when they died. So by the time Elvis was my age, he’d had 18 number-one singles, starred in 33 movies, and was rich enough to afford a pretty substantial drug habit. I myself have starred in no movies, buy generic ibuprofen because the brand-name stuff is too pricy, and have no hit singles. I did make the cat spontaneously pee on the bathmat when I was singing in the shower once, so I guess that’s something.

And Bobby? What did he do, really? By the time he was my age, he’d been Attorney General of the United States, served as senator of New York, and was running for president when he was shot. I haven’t even been able to muster up the energy to vote in my local school board elections, much less run for office. (I have, however, used my years to become a hardcore Kennedy buff. So again, that’s something.)

I’m starting to feel like a bit of a slouch.

This past year has seen some important changes in my life. Sure, I sold two novels, both of which should be coming out this year, but I’m not talking about the writing career stuff. I’m talking old age stuff.  I got my first pair of bifocals. They didn’t work so well at first, mostly because I couldn’t see through my “God, I’m old!” tears, but now I’m used to them. Sure, I look like my father when I wear them, but at least I can now see the TV and my phone at the same time.

Another milestone that I hit this year was noticeable hearing loss. I’ve had tinnitus in my right ear ever since a particularly rowdy Paul Young concert back in 1986, but that’s not even what I’m talking about. It’s the soft clicks and vibrations I can’t hear anymore. I keep my phone on vibrate at all times, for instance. And at least three times a week, I’ll miss a phone call because I never heard the darn thing buzz. (Not that I’m complaining about this—I despise talking on the phone, and not being able to hear is a fabulous excuse.) I also can’t hear the blinker in my car anymore. How many times over the years had I been in the passenger seat of my father’s truck, and snarkily said “You do know your blinker’s on, right, Dad?” Remember how I said I look like my father in bifocals? Scratch that. Karma has decided to turn me into my father. That's what I get for being a wise ass.

Finally, I’ve realized this year that I’ve been living in a state of utter denial. I’d decided some time ago to stop dyeing my hair until the grey demanded that I do so. I was able to get away with this only because the lighting in my bathroom is terrible and I couldn't see the grey (also, I needed bifocals). I had the opportunity to look in a mirror with overhead fluorescent lighting the other day, and guess what? The grey is getting pretty demanding. It’s a bit depressing. I’ve seen a million pictures of Bobby Kennedy, and I don’t ever remember him being this grey.

I’d let all this get me down, but I’ve been trying to remember this: I have two books coming out this year. Elvis  wrote no books. Bobby wrote a bunch of books, but never had two come out in the same year. So they can keep their fancy gold records and presidential elections. Because I'm going to spend this year basking in my glory and eating frosting straight out of the can.

I recently read an article about a college-age woman who went to class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in varying degrees of makeup (none, some, and lots) to test her classmates’ reactions. (Read it here: http://www.bustle.com/#/articles/26095-how-do-people-react-to-different-levels-of-makeup-i-decided-to-find-out.) She discovered that when she wore light makeup, as she was prone to do anyway, she received positive feedback.

 Desperately needing a blog idea, I thought I’d try to replicate the experiment. Would it make a difference if it was a 40-something woman who never wears makeup? If it took place at work instead of on campus? If I crammed it all in to three consecutive days instead of three days spread throughout the week? The results were shocking.

Wednesday: Here I am with no makeup. This is also a pretty clear depiction of how fuzzy my hair gets when it’s humid out. This is actually my everyday look; I often only wear makeup to weddings (or funerals, if I'm worried that I'll look more washed out than the corpse). This is not due to my confidence that I naturally look beautiful, but rather a result of my valuing sleep more than anything else. Putting on makeup would take away at least six minutes of time that would be better spent snoozing.

As this look was par for the course, I didn’t get any comments on this day. Sure, the guy at the gas station called me “ma’am,” but that’s nothing new. I finally asked one of the women I worked with to honestly critique my look.

“Um, I guess you look exhausted, but you always do. I just assumed you had eight kids or something.”

I was not pleased. “What am I, a Kennedy? I have no kids. This is my natural beauty.”

She smiled, kind of like she was gritting her teeth. “Sure, okay. Looks like you’ve got a fresh new zit on your chin. Might want to put some cover-up on that.”

Day One Conclusion: I look like a tired-looking old hag with acne.

Thursday: I had the most trouble with this look. My first attempt was to put on concealer, blush, and mascara. Apparently, this was not much different than “no makeup” because when I got to work, the receptionist asked me if my brood of children had kept me up all night. I added more blush, eyeliner, and light eye shadow. Better, though much like when I was in high school, I discovered that the more I tried to cover up my fresh new zit, the more attention the concealer drew to it. I cruised around the office space to gauge the results.

Sadly, I found that people were a lot chattier today. One co-worker who has always snubbed me asked me what my weekend plans were. Another told me I looked “different . . . but it’s nice.” Instead of giving me a boost, this made me feel a little crummy about how I normally look. Later in the day, I accidentally rubbed my eyes without thinking, leaving a trail of dried mascara crumbs along the side of my face that I didn’t know was there until I got home.

Day Two Conclusion: People seem to like the makeup, but not enough to tell me when it’s smeared across my face.

Friday: I was a little uncomfortable with the amount of makeup I was wearing, but I promised you all I’d go full glam, so I did. I got used to it quickly: wearing this much makeup was almost like wearing a mask. What a difference! I noticed immediately that the guy at the gas station couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. And when I got into work, everyone was commenting.

“Wow!”

“Unbelievable!”

And that was just the president and vice president of the company, respectively. As I passed coworkers in the hallway, they all started talking, either to me or about me. I couldn't believe it! Did wearing a lot of makeup really make that much of a difference? How shallow was our society?
When I got to my cubicle, a crowd formed. Everybody wanted to see my glamorous makeup job. I'll admit it: it felt good. All the attention made me feel like a total rock star!


Day Three Conclusion:  The reaction I got from my coworkers and random strangers pumped me so full of energy, all I wanted to do was rock and roll all night.

Conclusion: I hate to admit it, but wearing makeup really does matter. Yet I do still value sleep above all else, so I'll continue to wear the 'no makeup' look for a long time to come. However, I do think I'll be breaking out the "full makeup" look for the next wedding or funeral I attend.

Here I am, midway through 40, and I'm fading fast. Everything on my body is falling apart. My midsection is spreading at an alarming rate, my eyesight is so bad that I have constant migraines, and of course, aspirin doesn't help, because the printing is so small on the bottle that I took Pepcid for three days thinking it was Advil. The headache stayed, but on the plus side, I haven't had heartburn in a week.
The failing eyesight has proven to be the biggest problem so far. I'm having the hardest time shaving my legs, because I can no longer see the hair, and wind up missing big patches. I've resorted to the "feel as I go" method, which is depressing, because now I realize I should've been moisturizing my legs along with my neck all of these years. The good news is, if they ever need a stand-in for Godzilla's legs, I'm a shoo-in.
Trying to lose weight has been a lot of fun, too. I keep hearing my friend Helen in my head. "Wait until you turn 40," she always said to me, when I was merrily clueless in my 30s. "It's soooo hard to lose weight after 40." What Helen should have said was "you can eat all of the carrots, cucumbers, and green beans you want. Once you turn 40, even the thought of a Double Stuf Oreo will cause the scale to jump three pounds." The good news is, most of the over-40  clothes that I like at J.C. Penney are roomy throughout the waist and hip area. I'm sure these loose, sensible blouses make me look pregnant . . . though nobody's asked me lately when I'm due. I'm not sure if I should be thankful or depressed about that!
It's not just my body that's giving in to middle age. It's my mind, too. I guess it's okay that I can't read anything anymore unless I take my glasses off, because when I open People magazine, I don't know who anybody is in there that they're talking about. When I was at my optometrist's office recently, I was so excited to find a magazine with someone I recognized on the cover. There was Gloria Estefan, looking smoking' hot . . . on the cover of AARP magazine.
Ditto for today's music. I can't stand most of it (though I love Pink. She's good. I'll have to ask my 13-year-old nephew if she's "cool" or if she's singing "old people music.") I find myself tuning in to the 'lite' station, because they play 80s music all weekend. I am happy to report that Boy George, George Michael, and none of the members of Duran Duran qualify for AARP membership yet. I'm using that little fact to reassure myself that they are still young and hip, like me.
There are some perks to being over 40, however. Nobody makes fun of me when I wear a belly bag. (My sister and I go walking a lot, and I need something to carry my keys and phone in. It's a fashion statement, really.) I think they assume it's expected at my age. Also, I can play old arcade games like Pac-Man and Pitfall against my nephews and still beat them occasionally. That's right: we were the generation that test-drove those mindless games you young 'uns are playing on your iPods today! And I have no problem marching into a dressing room and trying on a bathing suit while wearing knee highs. Something like that would've mortified me ten years ago. Now, I'm just happy that the knee highs are hiding that huge swatch of hair that I missed on the back of my ankle while shaving.
Also, sometimes when I go to Shop Rite on Senior Citizen Tuesday, they give me the senior discount by accident. Normally, that would make me cry, but I'm big on saving money, so I don't complain. (Ten percent off! That's nothing to sneeze at.) 
Probably the most reassuring thing about turning 40 is going on Facebook. There, I can see what all my high school friends are up to these days. It usually cheers me up, because every day I see all of them turning 40, too.

Dear Stacey at 15,

Hey you! Yes, you there, the one putting a hole in the ozone layer with all that Aqua Net you're spraying in an effort to make your bangs stand up straight! It's me--you at 40. Boo!
How are you doing? You seem a little angst-ridden. Why don't you turn off that music? Yes, I know the Violent Femmes rock, but they're awfully depressing, and since you will eventually be diagnosed with clinical depression, they certainly can't be helping. You know what you like to listen to now as you're be-bopping down the highway? That's right, Duran Duran. THAT's how cool you're gonna be at 40.
Right now, you're probably thinking about how you're going to meet Megan in the girls' bathroom for a cigarette before your first class. Guess who you don't speak to at all anymore? That's right, Megan. We don't even know what state she lives in. Stop worrying so much about being BFFs. And see this turkey neck? Those cigarettes gave us this. Quit now!
What's that, you ask? How could we have possibly lost touch with Meegs? Take a careful look at your friends. We don't see any of them anymore, except on Facebook, which I don't even want to explain to you right now. You know who you do get together with a couple times a year? Alicia and Laura. That's about it. People grow up and grow apart. Stop worrying so much about your friends' dramas and worry more about getting that chemistry grade up.
The good news is you'll never forget your English teacher right now, Ms. Lacosse. Be nicer to her--she will have a huge influence on your career path. And you know your secret dream to own a bookstore and read all day? We get to do that! Except for the reading all day part. Businesses take a lot of work, you know.
Hear your mother out in the kitchen, telling you to get a move on before you miss your bus? Know how everyone always says you two don't look anything alike? That'll change. You're pretty much her blonde twin now. That's right--you, too, will soon carry a big purse and wear sensible shoes. You won't care at all about how silly you look. And no, sadly, Converse All-Stars do not constitute sensible shoes. But you will occasionally throw some arch supports into your Cons and wear them for nostalgia's sake. We haven't totally changed, you know.
You and Mom are even friends now, can you believe it? Being an adult isn't so bad. You know who your best friend in the whole world is? That's right, your big sister. That hasn't changed. Awesome, right?
You should be nicer to your aunts, by the way. Three of them will be rather influential role models for you as you get older. What's that? Why did I say three, and not four? You're going to lose one when she's fairly young. I'm not going to tell you which one. That way, you can be more appreciative of the four you have now.
Why are you sighing and rolling your eyes at me? What do you mean, I just don't understand you? I WAS you, stupid. Let's get a few things straight: first of all, you're not fat. One day, you're going to make it your personal weight loss goal to stay under 170 pounds. That's about 40 pounds heavier than you are now. Shut up and put on a bikini. I do wish we'd worn those more when we could.
Second of all, know that guy who you get all crazy and giggly around when you pass him in the hallway? Yeah, we don't even remember his name anymore. He's not the love of your life. In fact, pretty much everyone you've ever dated isn't the love of your life or even good enough for you. You'll meet a guy your senior year that actually knows who Roald Dahl is. Date him. Date that guy.
I know right now you're thinking that nothing could ever be more important than whether or not Amie's pregnant, or if whatshisname will notice the cool tie-dye you're wearing today, or when you will finally be able to escape the farm and live on your own. You're so wrong. Here are the answers: Amie's not pregnant; nope, whatshisname doesn't know or care that you're alive; and someday, you'll miss both the farm and not having to worry about a mortgage. 
The most important people in your life now are your family, a guy you won't meet for another couple of decades, and a handful of friends you haven't even met yet. And some kids who haven't been born yet. No, not ours. We haven't completely lost our minds. But you do have a sister and will have in-laws that will be inclined to reproduce. It won't be as terrible as you think. You'll actually like your nephews and niece. Because you're going to be the coolest aunt ever.
Take another look around your room. Take note of that poster of Nick Rhodes rolled up in the corner; those Jack Ketchum and Stephen King books on your shelves; that old snapshot of Gordie Howe you have taped to your mirror. Good news: you're going to meet every one of those people at some point in your life. Yes, even Nick Rhodes. I'll allow you a little teenage scream for a moment. And know how you're a closet wrestling fan? You're going to have the best time hanging out with Jake "the Snake" Roberts when you're thirty-nine. I know. Sooo cool.
I wish I could tell you more, but it's time for me to go. There's so much more I want to tell you--like which college you should pick, and which marriage proposal to turn down, and a million other things, but I know you still need to make those choices and mistakes on your own.  Good luck. You're not alone.
Oh, and if you could play these Powerball numbers on February 14, 2007, that would be helpful: 
35 01 15 37 45 32 3

Love,
You at 40.

I apologize, faithful readers. My blog is late this week, but it was for a very good reason, I promise. My sister and I had tickets to see Duran Duran last night. For the seventh time.

The first time Kim and I ever saw the fab five, she was fourteen and I was eleven. Back then, the pre-conversation went something like this:
"I'm going to marry Nick Rhodes. Who are you going to marry?"
"John Taylor. Missy in my math class thinks she's going to marry him, but I'm going to tell John what a dirty skankbag she is, so then he'll marry me for sure."
"Look. There's Simon Le Bon. AIEEEEEEE!"

Times, they are a-changin'. As I looked around at the audience last night, I wondered why the woman three rows up was still trying to rock the Pat Benetar look when Pat's been hawking Metamucil on TV lately. At least my sister and I were still fabulously young. This was our pre-concert talk:
"Those are cute jeans. JC Penney's?"
"No, Jen at work is on the divorce diet and gave me her old 'fat' jeans. Don't you love the embroidery?"
"I hope John Taylor started dyeing his hair again. He was too gray the last time I saw him. Who do you think he uses, Lady Clairol?"
"I'm guessing Nice 'n Easy. I've found it does a much better job on the roots."
"Look. There's Simon Le Bon. AIEEEEEE!"

I have to admire the guys for rocking on stage for two whole hours without gasping for air and clutching their backs, like my sister and I were doing after thirty minutes of semi-dancing in the aisle. Sure, Nick Rhodes looks a little pudgy and Roger Taylor has a few crow's feet around his eyes, but they still looked and sounded great ... as did Kim and I and every other forty-something woman in the audience. Because trust me, every person in that audience was a forty-something reliving her fantasies of youth.
Once the show ended at 10:30, Kim asked me if I wanted to gamble. We were at the casino, after all.
"Heck, no. It's way past my bed time. Let's go to the hotel and see if we can catch a 'Brady Bunch' rerun."

Okay, so a few things have changed since 1984. But our love for Duran Duran remains the same.

I'm something of a perfectionist, so I like to bring my 'A' game to whatever I do, be it my job or doing laundry. It should be no surprise, then, that when I decided it was time for my mid-life crisis, I would aim high (no pun intended...you'll get it in a minute.)
It all started a few weeks ago when I turned 39. I started to wonder what the heck I've been doing with my life. I have yet to become a famous author or to turn down a marriage proposal from Vin Diesel. Nobody has named a newly-discovered variety of orchid after me, and lets face it, I have failed to achieve the status of fashion icon in my community. In fact, they've started to complain at the local grocery store when I show up in my pajamas. Sure, everyone thinks it's cute when the teenyboppers do it, but when an unshowered old bag shows up in the produce section wearing her Spongebob nightie, now all of a sudden the store manager wants to call the cops.
But I digress.
The point is, I was panicking. Time was running out, and I still hadn't made my mark on the world.
So I decided to climb Mount Everest.
Really, I don't know why I'd waited this long to think of it. I could take a leave of absence from work, buy some sensible snow boots, hire a Sherpa, and hike my way to the top of the world. Brilliant! Exactly what I needed to pull myself out of this slump!
I googled Mount Everest as soon as I got home. The first thing to come up was the number of frozen corpses that still litter the path up the mountain. I was fine with that. Maybe we could set up camp on top of George Mallory. You know, because he's there.
As I scrolled through the pictures of this truly awesome natural masterpiece, it dawned on me what I was seeing. Lots of snow. And lots of high peaks. Potentially slippery peaks, what with all that snow. 
I remembered a few important things about myself. Like how I start to whine if the thermostat is set below seventy. And how I have a tendency to trip over my feet so often that I've often been compared to an old Chevy Chase skit. Not to mention that not one of my friends is a bona-fide Sherpa guide. As I stared at a particulary breathtaking photo taken from the summit of Everest, my dream of climbing to the top went up in smoke. Which was okay, because where there's smoke, there's fire, and I really do appreciate being cozy warm.

Instead, I decided to buy six packages of Hostess®
sno-balls and eat them all in one sitting. The snack cake-induced sugar high made me forget all about my failed hopes and dreams, and once I washed it down with a shamrock shake, I was feeling much better about life in general. Crisis averted, and now I have these brand new super-chic snow shoes to boot!

Nobody has ever accused me of aging gracefully. I was dragged into my thirties, kicking and screaming the whole way, and I find myself once again on the cusp of a new decade. To say I turned 39 with dignity would be a bald-faced lie.
I started the week with my usual birthday trepidation—hiding in bed, weeping and lamenting my fate. How could I be so close to 40 and still not be rich and famous? My mother told me I could be anything I wanted to be—why wasn’t I an astronaut yet? This only depressed me further when I realized that had I become an astronaut, I’d be at retirement age by now. 
I called my (older) sister to make myself feel better. She tried to cheer me up by reminding me that at least I didn’t have to dye my hair yet (sure, there are a few gray hairs up there, but the blonde tends to hide it—or at least that’s what I tell myself.) Then she told me that one of her students thought she was 38. You know, younger than me.
Thanks, Kim.
Then I remembered when Kim turned 39. Her husband pointed out that age is based on years completed. So the day after you turn 39 is actually the first day of your 40th year. Why do I even talk to these people?
As I was glumly shuffling in to work, wondering if I needed bifocals, an angel from dispatch (you know her as Linda, my top commenter) reminded me about everything that is good about birthdays. Namely, cake.
I had coffee cake on Monday and a gourmet cupcake on Tuesday. The ladies in my department surprised me with Oreo cake on Wednesday, and there was enough left over for breakfast on Thursday. There was a coupon in the paper for an ice cream cake on Friday, and I thought, why stop now? I gorged my way through the whole birthday week. My pants no longer fit, but at least I’m smiling again.
Of course, birthdays aren’t just about feeling sorry for yourself. They’re also about family. My mother, for instance, who brought me in to this world.
She’s making me a cake on Sunday.
Speaking of Sunday, don’t miss my LIVE interview on Scary Scribes, when I discuss my fabulous short story “People Person” with host Kristi Petersen Schoonover. Then I'll talk about how fabulous it is to turn 39 and still not be an astronaut.  Bring the Kleenex!
Listen live at 6 p.m. Sunday, January 29 
here!
 http://www.blogtalkradio.com/paranormaleh/2012/01/29/scary-scribes