Yesterday, I celebrated my thirty-eighth birthday. I'll come back to that.

On Tuesday, I was up and out of my house before dawn, and noted the sliver moon hanging in the sky. The sky grew light as I drove south on 101, and by the time I arrived at the office, it was morning.

After a busy day at the main offices of BlogHer, I headed back home, watching the sunset as I made my way north on 101. Back at home, I spent the last evening of my 37th year shoving the kids towards their beds and pining for my own with a longing that surprised even myself.

I'm weary, these days. Not from anything extraordinary, but just from the pace of life. I drove home past panhandlers and behind bumperstickered RVs announcing that the family inside was homeless due to outrageous housing costs. I realize how very lucky I am. And how very, very 38 I am.

I've never been one to dwell on my age. I didn't sweat turning 30, and to me, 40 is just another number on the ever-closer horizon. I joke about being "old" but I don't mean it. What is old? What is the point? Regardless of our own wishes, the numbers continue to climb. Anyway, I'm an optimist. I always want to see what's around the corner.

Yesterday, as I bumbled through my day, phone calls and emails and facebook postings and deliveries reminded me that it was my Special Day. And with each new wish for a wonderful year, I felt a little less weary. By the end of the day, I was practically glowing.

Of course, that could be due to all the exfoliating I've been doing. But really, I think it was all the love.

And so I'm 38. And I'm lucky, if a little pooped out. All is well.