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The best is yet to come

When I was little, every year on my birthday, I would wish for the same thing as I blew out my birthday candles: a dozen roses.

Part of this was me being a princess, an inescapable part of my personality from infancy. Part of it was my utter lack of imagination, also important to my make-up: a happy kid, I simply couldn't think of anything grander to wish for. And, of course, part of this was me just really liking flowers.

For years, I waited for that wish to come true. At one point, I told my parents that that's what I wished for and they did not forget. I think I was sixteen when I got roses on my birthday for the first time. I don't think I ever told Jamie, but I didn't have to - he had that under control without any hints.

Today, I bought my own flowers. Two dozen roses cosmo-pink now sit behind my sofa on the console table. They're gorgeous. And you know what? Seeing them there actually does make me smile. And tomorrow, I'll wake up, and they'll be there, on my birthday morning. A gift from myself.

When I was a little girl, I didn't have the imagination to dream for myself the life I live now. The art deco penthouse in the Thorne miniature rooms in the Art Institute of Chicago basically defined my apartment ideal for maybe fifteen years. It was the first cool-looking apartment I had ever seen and it stuck. Now I look around my own apartment (which is actually, now that I think about it, art deco-inspired) and I can't think of a lovelier place to live. I look at my life, which is full of people and fun and happy, and I can't think of a better life. I look at the years I leave in my wake, and in spite (or perhaps because) of their ups and downs, they honestly kicked ass. I have experienced such fantastic things, and been to such fantastic places, and met such fantastic people in my now thirty years.

The best part is: I am certain that the best is yet to come.

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