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I have my forty-seventh birthday today.

Old is a relative term. My dad who is 85 finds me to be very young. My teenager believes I am ancient, born last century, too old to understand anything. I am older than my sister and younger than my husband. In the dance sport world thirty-five is considered a senior.

I am not scared of my new age. Thirty was depressing for me. I cried for the lost youth. Forty was nothing. First child becoming an adult was stepping over a red getting older line. A doctor recommending reading glasses as age-related difficulties sounded like an offence to me. Getting a tooth pulled out recently was like reaching a point of no return. I have some wrinkles. No grey hair. I am more flexible than my three daughters. And I can dance: cha-cha, foxtrot, quickstep, samba, rhumba, tango, and waltz. Dancing makes me feel young. I ice-skate at least once a year and moving on ice makes me feel as giddy as a child. So does swinging and swimming.

When I woke up this morning I did not feel much different than last night. It's Wednesday. I have had my first cup of tea today. I had a boiled egg and oatmeal porridge with some black current jam for breakfast. My hubby drove me to town. The air is crisp. The sun shines brightly and friendly. My students went to French and I have the moment to post this slice, most of which I wrote before coming to school. I have received many hugs. I am healthy and in a good mood. I appreciate all the wonderful people I have in my life, a job that I love, the opportunities to learn, and the "my time" that has increased now that my kids have grown.

It's going to be a good day, and a wonderful year.

Four cups - a gift from my sister.