Thirty-one came and went without too much trauma--in fact, it was kind of nice. Kelly Sue and I were ladies who lunched, Ryan and I had a quiet night since we're having our official birthday dinner Monday and my family celebrates tonight.
But I am suddenly aware, maybe even hyper-aware, of the fact that I am no longer 21. Actually, 21 seems very very near (Remember that time we were walking up Avenue A at 4am and we saw Mark Ibold and I decided we should follow him?) but awfully far away, like those were scenes from someone else's life. Or a movie. A slow-moving biographical tale that follows our heroine as she stumbles through attempts at romance and career advancement while taking advantage of parties with goodie bags and open bars. It's not the most interesting movie, but there are some funny parts.
They're little reminders: the fact that my stack of CDs at Love Garden is no longer an indicator of release dates and hipsterdom (I'm a good six months behind on everything, not to mention I get really outraged when I browse the used section and find perfectly good things--the entire career output of Polvo--there. Who would sell Polvo? Who?). Or that I find myself starting sentences about how I don't understand what the kids are into. I like going to bed early. Just someone stop me if I pull out the mom jeans, OK?