Yesterday, i turned 22.
Kid birthday parties are fun. You get to play games, and wear party hats, and your mom is responsible for the whole thing (including clean-up). All you have to do is be alive for a certain amount of time.
The thirteenth birthday is great, because you're officially a teenager. Sixteen is cool, because you get to drive. At eighteen, you get to vote, smoke, buy lottery tickets, and pierce or tattoo anything you want. And at twenty-one, you get to drink.
That's it, unless you want to rent a car (25) or run for president (35).
I suppose in some ways, this birthday was an occasion. It was the first birthday i had away from home. It was also the first birthday i had in my office (though it was not the first time that i worked on my birthday). And, since i own a car that i rarely drive and have no desire to ever be in politics, this birthday marks the beginning of an era: the era where birthdays don't matter.
I'm not saying that i won't still expect cake and Facebook well-wishers. I'm just saying that from here on out, i don't want to have a birthday party unless my age is a convenient fraction of a century (25, 50, and 75, for those of you not mathematically inclined).
Fortunately, my boyfriend is amazing, and this year's birthday celebration consisted of him cooking dinner for me. He made antipasto, garlic bread, bacon-wrapped scallops, mashed potatoes, and chicken marinated, crusted with spices, and wrapped in prosciutto. For dessert he made rum cake with walnuts. He also gave me jewelry, and we spent the weekend watching The West Wing, cuddling, and . . . doing other things. What more could a girl want?