Once upon a time, there was a piece of wood.

I had a big rant planned about how I am totally Pinocchio waiting for the Blue Fairy to show up and make me a real boy, but in light of my early morning astro-angst I think I will save it for another day and instead turn the topic to jollier things such as:

Happy birthday, Miranda! I hope your day is utterly excellent with many sparkles and perhaps some gratuitous nudity!

I’m a little worried about my hipster status, seeing as I just read this article from the New Yorker and laughed appreciatively. Does this make me old? Even worse, does this make me a Snooty McSnob? I have these preconceived notions about the readership of the New Yorker; men in full pinstripe suits and top hats, twirling the ends of their curly moustaches as they chuckle at a particularly humourous bon mot, swirling their brandy in a snifter to release the smoky aroma of cedar and fine cigars – and the women, draped in fox stoles and ancestor pearls; the kind of woman who says “well, I never” and actually means it, and possibly also carries opera glasses around for regular viewing instead of opera viewing. Those are the kind of people who read the New Yorker, not me. I’m not old. I’m drinking Diet Coke and listening to video game soundtracks on my Mac Book while looking at scooter parts, dreaming of summer and the perceived freedom it brings. Tonight, there will be bowling and the further shirking of laundry. Not old. Immature, sure, but definitely not old.

I often think I worry too much about avoiding the inevitable confines of age.