This Is What 39 Looks Like

Now that I am one year closer toward wearing velcro shoes (I turned 39 last Tuesday), I’ve spent more time than usual obsessing over my death and other really depressing crap like “How will I be remembered?” and “I hope my kids think I did I good job” and “my boobs are sagging and what on Earth is this flubby fold of skin above my knees? FML.”

Because that’s what Birthday girls do, right? Right-o.

In other words, I’ve been in a Funk (make that a a capital “F” for added oomph). In an effort to absolve myself of this melancholy, I did what P.I.A.F. (People In A Funk) should do:

1. On Tuesday (again, my actual natal day), I forced my big sister to cook me homemade chicken parmesan because food is basically my heroin if I were indeed a heroin addict, but I’m not a heroin addict so chicken parm it is! Hey-o!
2. On Thursday, I indulged in a 2-hour “Tree of Life” spa service at Faena Hotel Miami Beach’s spa, Tierra Santa, (this new SoBe-based property is so over-the-top fab I can’t EVEN) where my chakras were aligned because I’m apparently a hot mess whereas my chi is involved. Using sound therapy, hot stones and massage, therapist Claudia had me feeling groovier.
3. On Friday, I drank my sorrows away with rosé all day at The Standard. 
4. On Saturday, I guzzled gyros (defer to #1 for reasoning) at the Saint Sophia Greek Orthodox Festival and prayed in church.

I am now happy to report I am no longer a P.I.A.F.

Sure, it took musical vibrations, 10,345 calories, copious cups of Whispering Angel and talking to my homie, God — but hey, it’s all good. Here’s to another year closer to Depends, ya’ll!