Birthdays have never been big occasions for me. Growing up there wasn’t much (or any, really) family around. And with a summer birthday? Well that meant that very often few friends were around either. There may have been a pool party one year, but never any big blowouts. There were no ponies, no clowns, no bouncy castles. There wasn’t a sweet sixteen, no big celebration for turning legal at eighteen. This is not to say you should all band together and throw a big party for me because, waaaah, poor deprived me; no, this is only to establish my relationship with birthdays—few expectations, very little fanfare.
But this year? This year felt different. This year I turned 29. I know, 29 is no milestone. It’s an odd number. It’s not pretty like 20, comfortable and easy like 25. It’s not established like 30. But 29? It’s kind of like that blaring yellow sign on the freeway, “Last Exit Before…”, a strong and direct warning that you better know where you’re going because if not, you’re going to end up in a place you don’t want to be.
Mike has told me for, well, five years now, that turning 29 is much harder than turning 30. At 30, I guess, you’ve come to terms with your fate. You’ve gotta accept that you can no longer enter a college bar and assume that you blend in with the students. Likely, you don’t. I suppose that’s the purpose that 29 serves: a whole year to come to terms with facts such as these.
This year, instead of the usual “I guess we could go out to dinner?” I suggested a BBQ to celebrate my birthday. I’ve met many new friends over the past few months thanks to my wee sidekick and I thought it’d be fun to get these new pals together with friends I’ve known for years in one place to mix and mingle.
The turnout for the soiree was so fitting for 29. There were friends I’ve known since college–friends who were present for (and partners in) some of my most debaucherous moments. At one point we all shook our heads at the realization that we’d known each other for over a decade. There were friends I’ve met only a few months ago, but who already feel like sisters because they are my seatmates on this exhilarating ride called parenthood. They don’t know about the time I fell down drunk in the middle of the street after stumbling out of a frat party (although now, I guess they do). But they know how many hours I slept last night, and my thoughts and fears about the best time to have a second child. There were babies, adorable babies! On one hand it felt so natural; on the other, so weird. When did we become the kind of people who throw parties involving children?
So when they brought out the cake–a strawberry flavor I’ve had every year since I was a toddler–and everybody gathered in the dining room (I have a dining room!) to sing happy birthday before my friend’s 2.5-year-old son leaned in to blow out the candles, in one room I saw my past, my present and my future, swirling and mixing into one solid picture: my life at 29.
