Yesterday was my birthday. The big 3-1. I was sort of dreading it. Not in a “woe is me, I’m getting older” sort of way, but rather a “Man, 31 means I have to start acting a lot more like an adult” way.
Last year for my 30th birthday I threw myself a little party. My friends came over mid-day. We drank lots of champagne and had a blast. I’m pretty sure, though I can’t confirm, that I did a cartwheel in the middle of my apartment. We chambonged the afternoon away, and the next day was rough…like, real rough. But it was okay, because 30 is an appropriate age to act like a bit of a fool. You’re an adult, but you still know how to have fun, and you don’t have to take yourself too seriously.
However, adding on that extra digit made my 30th birthday feel so juvenile. As my date of birth started to creep up and my family asked me how I wanted to celebrate, I felt like I had a very adult decision to make. No longer was it appropriate to bong glasses of champagne and attempt gymnastics in my home. No no, now there was a real threat of breaking something (like a bone, or a piece of furniture that wasn’t purchased from IKEA), or never ever recovering from my hangover.
Instead I opted for dinner with with my family and friends. Trust me, there was still plenty of champagne consumed, but mostly we just ate until we were stuffed to the brim. We went to a traditional Turkish restaurant and filled up on baba ganoush, lamb, and baklava. It was a pretty perfect way to ring in another year; good food, good company, and instead of reaching for a gatorade and Advil the next day, my 31 year old self was reaching for the Tums. That, my friends, is called growing up.