birthday celebrations in brussels

One week ago, I turned 37 years old. Thirty freaking seven years old. Can someone please explain to me how that happened? I’m pretty sure it was just yesterday that I was doing shots of Southern Comfort with a bunch of Freshmen on my first day at Uni. Did I pass out and fall into a black hole?

I’m generally all about the birthdays. It really is the most momentous day of the year and I like everybody to know about it… the person behind the counter at the café, co-workers, random people on the street. It’s the one day of the year I allow myself to feel supremely important and worthy of adoration.

This year, however, was different. I was pretty quiet about the whole thing. I didn’t want a fuss. I just wanted the day to go by unnoticed — my little secret. Luckily for me, my husband gave me the perfect gift of a getaway. Just him and I in Brussels, sleeping 12 hours a night in a bed as wide as it was long and eating french fries and waffles for dinner, which is exactly what this girl needed.

Thank you, sweet Joe, for being the best damn husband a girl could ever ask for.