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Winter health hazard for superheroes: flying + sensitive skin = windburn. So the other day, I'm at the dermatologist (no matter what the season, something your mother makes sure you have when you're in your late 20s and single. Whether the intention is ongoing skin care or direct matchmaking remains unclear). So he's leaning in close, inspecting my face, and then he starts poking and prodding around my eyes. First right, then left. Then he steps back. "I see some lines starting to appear," he says. "I'll give you some samples of wrinkle cream on your way out."

Wrinkle cream.

Excuse me , but did someone call ahead and tell him that this Wednesday is

Breakup Girl's Second Annual 29th Birthday?!

So BG took her wizened self home this weekend to celebrate with her best friend Emily from seventh grade, whose birthday is exactly one week earlier. And who now has a spiffy husband and two divine daughters. No pressure.

Well, at least Emily didn't marry my intended.

Here's the thing. I really can't complain. Over the past <mumble number of> years, I have travelled, I have tasted, I have listened, I have learned, I have loved -- I have landed the best job imaginable. And you are the people who make it that way. Yes, you furrow my brow with worry, but you also crinkle up my eyes with smiles and great big milk-out-my nose laughs. Not so much because you're all hardy-har-har jokesters (that's my job), but because you are spirited and open and inspiring and generous, able to launch mirth-seeking missiles into even the most tragic territory. I want to bake you a great big cake (will I jump out of it? Some restrictions apply).

And I want you to know that if these happy-birthday lines around my eyes point to the gifts you give me, I say bring 'em on.

On to your letters.

Now where did I put my reading glasses?

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