I have never been the kind of lady to flip when a birthday comes around. I know some of my friends hate birthdays, the passing of time and quickly change the subject when it falls on their age. I, on the other hand, have always loved birthdays, especially mine. I am a huge birthday girl and to me, the more the merrier.
I turned 33 last month and it got me thinking. Is this where I thought I would be at 33 years old?
Nope.
33 years old is when, according to my loving “life plan“, I would begin to have children or begin to think about having children. I wanted my married life, travel, dinners out, spontaneity, dinner parties, disposable income, and all things I loved about life before kids.
I wanted my career, that was just beginning when I found out I was pregnant with Brayden, a mere 8 months after we were married. Oops.
This is not where I pictured myself at this age. 33 years old, 80 pounds heavier than I would like, staying at home with 2 jibber jabber kids, seeing my pastry dreams drift further and further away, living on a tight budget and surrounded by little people who act and look just like me.
Nope, this isn’t what I thought I would be doing at 33.
Nope, was not in the plan.
Nope, but damn it looks good on me.
