7-year-bitch

Aiight, so I'm 37 years old nowadays. Ain't that a kick in the head?
That means I've been writing in this blog for 7 years! Crazypants.
I suppose I should reflect for a moment. Not much has changed in 7 years other than...
I've been hired, fired, hired, fired, hired, fired, hired, fired and hired again by the CBC,
I left a marriage, played the field for 2 seconds and settled into an unsettling relationship
Moved out on my own and in and out of several apartments, got knocked up and unknocked up (sadness) and have successfully and unsuccessfully parented a now 11-year-old.
I've made and lost dear friends whom I sometimes miss.
I've said horrible things. Tasted delicious things.
Dressed poorly and dressed to the tits.
I've celebrated friends weddings and grieved untimely deaths.
I've had good, great and bad sex and I've fallen in and out and in and out and in love.
Jack Lemmon, Bettie Page, Cyd Charisse, Harvey Korman, Evel Knieval, Heath Ledger, Robert Goulet, Leona Helmsely, Ingmar Bergman, Boris Yeltsin, Kurt Vonnegut, Larry Bud Melman, Johnny Carson, Anna Nicole Smith, Saddam Hussein, Robert Altman, Steve Irwin, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and too many more famous people all died.
Nicole Ritchie went from skinny fat to scary skinny and Perez Hilton became a celebrity.
Oh, and I've managed to dodge Bird flu, Swine Flu and tainted meat. *touch wood*
So, in retrospect, I guess it has been a busy few years. Do I have the 7-year-itch?
Surely I do. I guess I'll probably spend the next 7 years trying to scratch it.

Ding dong, my brownies are done.
Tomorrow I'm going to the gym. No, serious this time.
I'm joining the YWCA and hitting a yoga class tomorrow afternoon.
7 years from now I'll be so fit you won't even recognize me.