Thinking about: growing up.

I celebrated my forty-fifth birthday last week with a gentle four-mile run, coffee with the middle school principal, the acquisition of some South African slang, and ouzo shots with the waiter. On my thirty-fifth birthday, I was pregnant with my second child. My boyfriend forgot my twenty-fifth. I don't even remember my fifteenth.
So, what changes over the years? Nothing. Well, Everything - of course. I'm married, I have two sons, I'm a homeowner.
But that's not what I'm talking about.
If you'd met me in my twenties, you would probably have described me as insecure and mercurial. If you met me now, you probably wouldn't but that's only because I'm better at hiding it. (Meaning that I have fewer pairs of Dr. Martens and more interpersonal skills.) Some things never change. My hair and my room are still a mess. I'm still recklessly enthusiastic. I'm still a sympathetic audience. A poor driver. A worse speller. I will never understand table runners. That's what I'm talking about. The immutable me-ness. The stuff that doesn't change.
And I think I would like a new pair of Docs.