twenty-seven was going to be my perfect age. As I grew up I even joked that when I turned twenty-eight, I would officially start lying about how old I was.
Ah, the ignorance of youth.
I'll turn twenty-eight in just a few days and lately I've been thinking: Was 27 really perfect?
Certainly not. I've had ups and downs. Health problems, bad days, arguments. There are bills that went unpaid, and a lot of my hair fell out. I chipped nails, stubbed toes, and ate WAY too many pickle flavored Pringles. I worried too much, panicked too often, and didn't laugh nearly as enough (meaning every single day).
But there was SO much good in twenty-seven.
I celebrated weight loss. I promoted causes dear to my heart. I found a big metal chicken. I dyed my hair red. I spent time with my sister. I spent time with Motherly. I began to take self portraits often. I started going back to Church. I fell in love with my husband every single day. I goofed off in grocery stores. I celebrated holidays with my family. I let the awkward out. I celebrated my eight year anniversary. I went to lunch with friends. I wore so much glitter. I dyed my hair pink! I wore a traveling red dress. I went shopping with my sister. I met The Pioneer Woman. I went to lunch with friends. I made made cookies, and brownies, and cakes. I talked for hours with friends about little things and big things. I learned to embrace ridiculousness. I geeked out constantly. I embraced the mother inside of me. I added new best friends to my heart. I rekindled old friendships. I changed my nail polish constantly. I snuggled a lot. I played a lot. I developed unhealthy relationships to television shows and then forced them on my husband. I tried new things. I traveled.