Happy 40th birthday! Forty is a great age. You're old enough to know better and loud enough to ignore it.
Let's start with the bakery. You opened your own bakery this year, which means you now get up at an hour I thought was only for airports and farmers. You are officially a person who kneads dough for a living. I'm so proud of you, and I'm also kind of impressed that you've stayed this upbeat while being that tired. I hope your birthday wish comes true: more sleep and fewer burnt croissants. Though to be fair, a croissant that's a little too dark is just a croissant with a strong personality. Like you.
Speaking of which, you are the loudest person I know, and I mean that as the highest praise. You are the first to show up to everything. Dinner? You're there early. Crisis? You're already parking the car. Surprise party? Ellie, you'd be there before the surprise was planned. I'm fairly sure you arrived at your own birth ahead of schedule and complained about the lighting.
I'd also like to thank you for the karaoke nights. Nobody belts out a power ballad quite like you, and nobody does it with such total confidence and such a flexible relationship with the key. You don't just sing the song, you take it hostage. And I will never stop admiring your thrift shop eye. You can walk into a store with a hundred ugly jackets and come out with the one perfect one, plus a lamp nobody asked for.
Then there are the bad movies. Nobody else would sit through three hours of terrible dialogue and call it a great night, and honestly, neither would I, unless you were next to me narrating. You make the worst films the best evenings.
So here's to your fortieth: may your ovens behave, your alarms be gentle, and your karaoke songs be long. You've got a lot of dough, and I mean that in the bakery sense, and the "you're doing great, kid" sense.
Ellie, you are one of the truest, most loyal friends I have, and my life is louder and so much better because you're in it.