Sunday, August 15, 2010


{Rocking the fancy pinky since 1983.}

Today, at long last, is the day of my birth. I mean, I've only been telling you about this day for a month now so you really can't say that you're surprised. Or excited.

{The caption next to this photo in my baby book says I've been saying, "I can't wait until my birthday" constantly after this day. Not much has changed in the last 25 years.}

But me? Oh, of course I'm excited. I love birthdays. They really are the best. I like cake, pretty wrapping paper and realizing that I'm now one year closer to 30. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Because there's not. My birthday is a day where I do what I want: I wear what I want, I eat what I want (I had frosting for breakfast) and I tell people whatever I want. I'm a real treat on my birthday.

{My first birthday: cupcakes and floral wallpaper}

I actually enjoy becoming a year older because it helps to alleviate the complex I have developed over looking like I'm seventeen years old. I get the side-eye when buying spray paint. I get a skeptical stink eye when purchasing cough syrup. I am asked for my ID when buying a rated-R movie or a video game that is not rated E: for Everyone. I have my ID at the ready when ordering an alcoholic beverage. Some say it's because I'm thin, but I happen to think it's my baby face and bad skin. You know, because that's what teenagers have. Not 27 year-old women. They've moved on past skinny, acne and baby faces and evolved into super classy love handles, wrinkles and sunken eyes. Right?

Not really. The thing about birthdays is that we often spend our time considering what we once thought we would have accomplished by this age. You know, like when you were ten years old you would proclaim that by thirty you'd have a really important job in Manhattan, living in a fab brownstone with your handsome stock broker husband and three picture-perfect children that appear to have hopped out of the latest Crew Cuts catalog. We always expect our lives to be perfect as children, because we think that life is perfect. The thing about growing up is that we realize life isn't all unicorns and puppy dogs. The horror! Life is unexpected and honestly, no one can really have it all. Besides, if you did have it all, where would you put it?

Awful joke. I know. But the thing about turning twenty-seven is that I'm not sitting here weeping over all the things I have yet to check off my life's to-do list. There are plenty of things in my life that I don't like, places I would rather be right now and children that I will probably never squeeze from my loins, but birthdays aren't for being depressed about what you don't have. They are about getting drunk while wearing a tiara with your college friends at some skanky bar. Whoops! That was what I did for my birthday six years ago. All this talk about looking like a teenager made me forget what year this is.

What I realized today, as my adorable nephews helped me blow out three hot pink candles atop a mound of frosted cupcakes, is that I don't have much to wish for. Though perhaps I didn't see it back then when dreaming of what twenty-seven, twenty-eight or even thirty might look like, I have a very full life. Is it precisely how I imagined it? Not exactly. But as far as lives go, I would say that mine is pretty darn wonderful. So, here's to twenty-seven years. I have a feeling this is going to be a great year.


Katrina said...

Happy 27th to you! :)

Stopping over from Friendly Friday.

Kristin said...

Amen sister! Here's to an upcoming WONDERFUL, SPECTACULAR year! :)

PS-- sorry I have been delayed in reading these. I am catching up this morning. :)


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