Wine Time!

Au revoir, 29.

R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
Birthday Leave a Comment

Happy hour is not something I love only because you can find $3 drinks, yes, even in New York City. I’m also a happy hour baby, born between the mystical hours of 5 and 6pm. Though people don’t worry about the time, it does linger in my mind that the actually birthday is at the specific time [life is in the details]…and with the proper cocktail.

Turning thirty isn’t such a big deal. I’ve already put out a book [shameless plug, Turning 30] on the topic and I’ve told people I’m thirty-something more often than not. Maybe all of this is why it’s anticlimactic. Twenty-nine was a highly memorable birthday, actually, alcohol poisoning aside [Thanks, Rachael] twenty-one was a truly memorable birthday. Between those two there was vomiting in parks, bars, on the street, hanging from trees, being thrown out of basement clubs, seeing naked men dance in showers and hit on my B, getting lost on the French Metro, tons of food, friends and fun.

Thirty will be absent of anything grand. I do have a plan to get a tattoo, mostly for selfish, mentally fulfilling reasons, but the day is already out of order and isn’t even here. It’s more likely the day itself will fade into obscurity. Brunch this Saturday, the actually party, will surely be fun, there’s no way it could be anything else.

At the same time, it feels like a slow descent towards goodbye. Knowing I’ll leave home in a month and a half for five months is terrifying. Yes, my decision, and necessary as I’ve become comfortable, complacent and risk-advert – scary nonetheless. Even knowing there is a return the idea of stepping away from the real world for five months, leaving home, friends and everything familiar is a terrifying concept.

So, thirty, here it comes. Well, here it is. Perhaps the year holds something remarkable, I’ve yet to succeed in obtaining the power of foretelling the future; only manipulating what it must be, hoping the mess I’m so good at making will continue to work out.

To the next thirty. Or, possibly twenty-three, the ironic coincidence of dying at fifty-three after joking about it for years would probably be the Universe’s ultimate gotcha.