I'm still here.

There are lot of ways I could have died yesterday:

I woke up at 5:30 am. (Yes, in my books this is a death-defying feat.)

I drove 358 km on a 400-series highway.

I accidentally ate meat sauce.

I biked 4.3 km home in rush hour traffic without a helmet on.

Later, I biked 6 km to trivia in a dress. Five minutes into my ride I realized that someone had tried to steal my quick-release front tire. (They apparently didn't bother to check if it was locked before unscrewing it.) Thankfully, I was riding uphill. The dress is now covered in grease. (A small price to pay in exchange for avoiding a horrific biking accident.)

I lost at trivia. Turns out that two brains are not enough. (That was our team name, by the way.) Our performance was so poor, in fact, that we won a pint of beer for the lowest score. (It's unlikely that my poor performance would have resulted in death, but I'm not going to rule it out.)

I biked 6 km home in the cold dark.

There were lots of ways I could have met my untimely demise yesterday.

And yet, I'm still here.

So today, I'm going to celebrate being 27, an age I honestly thought I'd never reach. I'm going to do all my favourite things. I'm going to eat coke bottle candies for breakfast and pasta for lunch. I'm going to drink coffee while listening to music and blogging. I'm going to take Brockton to the dog park. And while I bask in the sun and Brock tumbles in the sand, I'm going to plot my next adventure. I'm going to go to go for a jog. I'm going to read new books from the public library on my patio. I'm going to cuddle with Jay and tell him how lucky I am to know him.

I have a good life and it's only getting better.

Today, I'm going to promise myself that no matter how many birthdays come to pass--even when I'm bald and my breasts sag to my bellybutton--I will never going to complain about how old I'm getting. Instead, I'm going to celebrate each birthday as another day that I'm still here.