38

March 9 I turned 38 years old. I'm not old enough to dread my birthdays...yet.

After the party my husband threw for me this year, I may look forward to every birthday.

From now until forever.

That is, if he throws the same party every year.

Ever since I saw this movie I've wanted to throw what we now call a Once party.

(I wrote about the movie here.)

Watch the movie.

Look for the scene in the middle of the movie where a ton of people squeeze into a Dublin flat, eat pasta, drink wine and ale, and sing for their supper.

This is the party I wanted to be at.

If I knew Tina Fey when I first saw the scene I would have said,

I want to go to there.

So, Brian threw me this party for my birthday.

My friends came and brought food and art.

They sang and read and danced and played and showed and shared beauty.

Beauty in original songs, favorite books, acapella tenors, Longfellow poetry, Virginia Woolf prose, Debussy and The Marriage of Figaro.

We cleared off the living room floor and danced the polka to "There Is No Beer in Heaven" and we admired handpainted miniatures, cross-stitch samples and photo-collages.

And homemade spaghetti sauce and rich, dry wine.

And, oh lord, the desserts!

Homemade strawberry cheesecake and a lush, like 32-layer chocolate trifle thing with crumbled up candy bars.

As my contribution I read this post.

And cried. Alot.

We told stories and laughed and ate and I wished it would never end.

So I'm not afraid of 38 and, if every birthday brings this much beauty, then

who cares about old age?

Since my birthday and St. Patrick's day fall a week apart I thought this sign on a downtown street in Boston celebrates both perfectly.