You know, turning twenty-six is, well, kind of lame. At twenty-five, you’re a quarter of a century old, at twenty-seven you’re immersed in your late twenties and allowed to start freaking out about that impending thirtieth birthday, but at twenty-six, you’re just, well, twenty-six.
In case you hadn’t guessed, today, I am twenty-six. And eight months pregnant. And still recovering from kidney stone-related soreness. In a country that doesn’t know how to bake a decent cake.
If not for the ice cream, this birthday would be a total bust.