Well I have news for you, Eric Smith (utterer of that glorious original sentence); it IS my birthday. My birthday month, anyway. And because I share this birthday month with some very special people, I go ahead and declare the whole thirty-one days cupcake worthy. It's a sweet month for me. But you know how it gets when the years start piling up. Instead of proudly declaring oneself seven and a half, then seven and three quarters, then almost eight, you're just twenty-six for fifteen years until the grandma running the makeup counter suggests her brand and you realize you're no longer pulling it off. I don't know what happened this year (divorce, single-motherhood, too much sun, not enough butter--take your pick), but I hit a devastating milestone. Twenty-seven was the year I stopped being accused of being too young for my life. Too young to be married. Too young to be in college. Too young to adopt. Too young to teach. Too young to write. Too young to know those w