Happy birthday to me.

So, yesterday I turned 25. Thusfar it has not sunk in - either that or it just doesn't mean anything. Until a few years ago, I was unaware of any stigma relating to the 25th birthday. Then Will had his, and moaned for weeks about being a quarter of a century old. So I was concerned that I would also panic, but I didn't. I suppose it helped that the first (well, one of the first) thing he said to me yesterday morning was "Twenty-five. A great age." Though it occurs to me that he might be feeling the fact that he's now closer to 30.

The one thing that is odd about this birthday is that I am now the age my mother was when I was born.

So, a brief rundown of my day: Got up, made coffee, drank coffee while finishing my book, woke up Will and told him to play with me, realized that he wouldn't be awake until he'd had at least one cup of strong coffee, checked the WD, saw that my favorite lesbian had returned just to make my birthday post (I love you, Julia), had leftover Mexican food from the 4th, listened to the same Yma Sumac song on repeat pretty much all day, discussed our new series with Will, played Trivial Pursuit, danced around the apartment, went out for delicious sushi, watched parts of some favorite movies, did something Not Fit To Print with my boyfriend, had ice cream, worked more on the series, and had a few phone calls wishing me a happy birthday.

The phone calls, which deserve their own paragraph, were from: My mother, my father, my sister, Saren (and Pat), Lisa Beth, John, and Phoebe. The last two reached my voicemail and left very sweet messages, John accusing me of being Otherwise Engaged and Phoebe singing Happy Birthday to me. If anyone else called and I forgot, I'm very sorry.

And now, I have laundry to wash and dust to banish from my house.