I turned 32 yesterday and, as always, the weather was perfect. Listen: you may be a wonderful person, but you most likely do not have the joy of experiencing a birthday on May 20, when the world opens up and blooms. Even Seattle yawns and stretches, shaking out its long hair, smiling big and bright. It's not your fault, some of us are just born lucky.
I take birthdays very seriously and definitely do them right. This mostly involves enjoying the predictably incredible weather with drinks, books and company. I have sought out the best patios this town has to offer and made the most of the nonsense fantasy book I am currently reading.
Here is one of the only pictures I have ever taken of food:
I have lived in Seattle a little over a year and so much has changed since I turned 31. Like last year, I spent the evening with a lovely date. However this year, I had two or three people to invite along. Everyone canceled except my date, but I DID have people to invite. The victory stands.
Without living near so many people I dearly love, Facebook has offered an unlikely source of actual sentimentality. Sure, it makes it easy for people, poking them in the ribs and saying, "Hey, remember that jerk who split the midwest, taking his handsome face and creative genius along for the ride? Well, it's his dumb birthday!" Still, the few seconds people take to write a few words strike a chord with this out of tune contraption. And then some beautiful people surprise you with old photographs you never knew existed, pointing out all the ways you formerly experimented with facial hair.
Karaoke exists for birthdays. Nothing is more selfish and isolating than karaoke. The best you can do is at least find a place that offers rooms to rent so you can exhibit your shameless whines and howls away from the sensitive eyes of others. After an incredible meal at Seattle's best Indian restaurant, I dragged my date to such a room. Everything was covered in plastic, the lighting resembled a failing brothel and the song list was extensive.
31 was kind of a low key year as I filled up the mold I had cast at age 30. I have since found cracks and imperfections in that figure, some larger than others. I was often uncomfortable in my 31-year-old skin as I shrugged around and tried to force pieces into place. In this terribly large-numbered 32nd year, I'd like to fiddle around with that bent casting and see how much I can easily mend and where I need to take more drastic risks.
I needed last year's calm and I just may also need the excitement of a new age.
If none of this interested you, I'd still like to give you this picture of my dumb cat.
Have a lovely night.