My birthday comes around and I seem to get thoughtful, pensive. Not too analytical, but just thinking about stuff. I tend to think a lot, and it's not always productive.

So, I'm working on knitting a goofy looking case for my iPod. It's bright and stripey but not protective, other than from scratching. If I were to drop it, it wouldn't protect much. It's the kind of thing that involves thin, fine yarn and small needles. It's the kind of thing I have to pay attention to and can't really zone out to the television while I do it. I'm not entirely sure I'm pleased with it, but I may make another one for a friend when I've got the "bugs" worked out. Then I'll have to embark on a new project. My boyfriend's mom gave me her yarn stash, and I can figure out something, I am sure. I am captivated by the pattern for knitted bowls, made by knitting them out of wool and felting them. They seem so oddly decorative. They can't be used as a regular bowl would, but they would just look nice, a soft, fuzzy bowl.

After that, I have a couple of weekends of activities planned with people I love. Unfortunately it means I can't do some other things that I would like to, but that is the way life is. I can't do everything anymore, even if I want to. And that makes me sad, and feel old. Which brings me back to the whole birthday thing.

I have love, life, health, joy, enthusiasm, a body that works and gets around pretty well, and people. I have talents and things I enjoy being a part of. I have so much that can't be measured on a balance sheet.

I'm still going to buy myself something wonderful. I just don't know what that is yet.

As I drove to my sister's new apartment, I passed the Dairy Queen. The letters on the sign spelled out "open Friday". It was this past Friday, and it was open. A sure sign that spring is not far behind.

I can remember many years ago, after I first moved into town and was attending college, going to that very Dairy Queen. I didn't have a car at the time. If a friend had a car and wanted to go someplace, I always happily accepted a ride. It didn't matter where, I would go.

She wanted to go to that very same Dairy Queen. This has to be about 19 years ago now. She wanted what was called a Mister Misty. I had no idea what that was, and I probably didn't have any money, but I didn't care. We rolled the windows down, she had a pick up truck. I never knew a girl who drove a pick up truck. She lived in a house that was near an apple orchard. She painted these huge landscape paintings. I'm sure the truck came in handy at the time, or it was one of her older siblings' vehicles that had been passed down. I can recall that her parents were closer in age to my grandparents, and she was the baby, still living at home and going to college. I'm sure coming to campus was an escape for her, just as riding away from it was an escape for me.

I was really disgusted when I found out what a Mr. Misty was. Imagine soft serve ice cream doused in a Slurpee. A principle in my life was then and still is that water and dairy do not mix. No ice cubes in milk. No milk and Pepsi a la Laverne DiFazzio. Just wrong. So very wrong.

But it didn't really matter. It didn't make me think Kris was any less fascinating. Or worldly, or interesting and funny and creative. I first heard my favorite music on the radio in her truck, the Indigo Girls. My world burst open in rides in that truck. Closer to Fine became the first song I heard where I felt someone had crawled inside my head and took notes on my thoughts.

I was away from my home, and away from my small world of experiences. The people I'd known and the subjects I'd studied now seemed so much smaller. I was outgrowing where I had come from. It was intense and uncomfortable at times, but for the majority of that time, it was full of friendship, acceptance, understanding, support, encouragement and discovery.

And those were among the things I learned outside of my classes in college. Riding around with strangers.

I'm appalled at what we've done to Valentine's Day. When did it become a way for us to make the men in our lives suffer? Why do they feel like nothing they buy or choose for us will do? Why do they feel anxiety at the flower shop, or feel propelled into the jewelry store? It's partially our fault, ladies. And I'm holding the advertising industry responsible as well.

How can we expect them to read our minds? How can they know we'd prefer that tasteful one stone diamond over the flashy smaller stones set in the shape of a heart? We can't, and we shouldn't.

I think we need to first, do away with any expectations of the day. I choose to look at it as a chance for me to share my feelings (which I do a lot of all year round) with those I love. My sisters, my friends, those people in my life that may not feel a lot of love every day, those girlfriends from college who got me through those long nights of talking. I think there is so little love in the world, it can't hurt to just send it out there, with no demands, no expectations.

I find more joy in that which I do than that which I wait to happen to me.

My boyfriend lives in another city. I went through my teen and college years, and then nearly twenty more years before I could actually use the words "my boyfriend". We agreed not to buy gifts for each other this year. Then a basket of expensive chocolates appeared at work for me. From him. My first response was "that stinker!" But he wanted to surprise me. He wanted to do it with no expectations of return. He did surprise me. I took a moment to step back and revel in that feeling. Women say flowers die. They say "oh, I shouldn't eat that candy, it will only make me fat." Nearly every woman I work with accepted a piece of that chocolate when I offered it. Another co-worker told me regretably that she told her husband once not to waste money on flowers. She never got them again.

Men do listen. They remember. We just have to speak plainly.

I just said..."oh, they are wonderful, I love them, and I love YOU".

I saw a young girl with her mother last weekend at the Y. They were walking on treadmills next to one another. She was maybe, eight years old, with a blond bob of hair, and a pink t-shirt. She walked with determined purpose, smoothly and not too fast. My first thought was, what an awesome mom to spend productive, healthy time with her daughter that way, and to teach her good health habits. I love to see parents spending time with their kids, and not just running them through the drive through or taking them to the movies. I love things that create interaction, attention, discussion and thought.

Then the next thought that went through my mind was "I hope that girl doesn't think she's fat!" You see, one does not very often see children on the cardio equipment at the Y. Unless they really are overweight, and even then I think it's only been a handful of times I've seen it in the past four years that I have been attending.

I was ashamed of myself for thinking that, yet proud that I'd had the positive thought first. I miss my own mother, and from the time she died until even now I feel unfinished. I never had anyone show me how to take care of myself, to exercise and eat right, to shave my legs and wear high heels. I am saddened to think there are scores of girls her age that already feel fat. They feel like they are on the outside of the "in crowd" and don't fit in. They are ashamed of changing their clothes in the locker room. They can't find cute clothes in their size, so they give up.

I have come a long way from being that girl, but she still feels a strong jolt every time she recognizes a kindred spirit. I hope she was wrong, though. I hope I saw what my heart told me I saw the first time.

I am sadly remiss in posting to this thing, though I love to write. I haven't been feeling inspired lately.

I wasn't really feeling "into" the whole holiday thing this year, but my beau was here, and he helped me put the tree up. I wasn't feeling sad nor depressed, in fact, accomplished that I had my shopping done, and most things that I'd wanted to make as gifts, made.

I have the best boyfriend ever, and not because he bought me the i-Pod, and not because he let me pick it out, but because he noticed it was like an "old fashioned Christmas" with my whole being sucked into the computer figuring out how to download songs and load them onto this thin silver slick-screened siren.

Everyone around me is sick, or getting over being sick or just getting started being sick. I feel like Wonder Woman, only my bullet proof bracelets are made of vitamin C.

I will enjoy the colored lights on my tree and watch a few new DVDs. Television has been really lackluster as of late. I do know almost every show, bad or good, is likely available for purchase on DVD. Even though they replaced some of the songs on the episodes of Northern Exposure, which makes me mad, I still watch, because it's funny, touching, annoying and does not insult my intelligence.

I have the new Harry Potter, but have not yet finished last year's Stephen King. It's very personal, I almost feel like I'm invading someone's private journal.

I have not exercised a whole lot these past two weeks and I feel off kilter. But also a bit light headed, which is not good around the treadmill.

I will be back into the swing of life next week. For the new year.

I miss my incredibly warm grandparents. I wonder sometimes how I turned out so "normal". But then that begs the question, what is normal, and why would I want to be that?

I like remembering first times. The first time I tried or did things. My beau reminds me that we have many more ahead of us. That is exciting and so wonderful to ponder. Some things we have yet to try, that we will love, just out there waiting for us.