thirty-one years old

I celebrated my thirty-first birthday over the weekend. I'm old, fat, and have gray hair.

I just rode my bike. I was going to do five laps around the neighborhood, but the speed bumps are brutal. Instead, I rode out of the neighborhood, up to the bridge over the lake. I think when I last clocked that drive, it's two and a half miles. If so, that was a brutal five mile ride.

Brutal.

About two thirds of the way to the bridge, I was ready to quit. But I kept telling myself to go just one more stop sign, and made it to the bridge.

Yes, that ride about killed me. I need to do this at least every other day.

Thirty-one years old. I will not be this enormous when I ring in number thirty-two. Unless I'm pregnant, that is.