24th Birthday

Out of all 365 days that occur within a year, my favorite is my birthday (is that conceited?). A day (more like a weekend) of celebrating, seeing friends, and free desserts (bring on the cupcakes) is almost too good to be true.

So many people become depressed on their birthday, which I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s because I have yet to turn an age that requires me to mope in bed all day and pretend February 7th isn’t happening.

This past year, some of my friends turned 25 (haha, I’ll be 24), and they were less than thrilled. To be honest, 30 might be a rough one (still 6 years away), although, since I was a toddler, I’ve been planning my 50th birthday (no one should be surprised by this).

No, I don’t know why I’ve always been so excited to turn 50. I used to think everyone had their lives figured out by then (I now know this is far from true).

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Your 20’s can be slightly terrifying (that no-money, don’t-know-what-to- do-with-your-life-thing), but I’m having fun. So far, years 20-24 haven’t been too shabby (lived in Paris, graduated college with honors, moved into an apartment, and started a business with my best friend). To be continued…

Back to dreaming of being 50…

I always imagined throwing myself an enormous 50th birthday bash. Think dozens of bottles of Dom Pérignon, men and women in Saint Laurent suits (vintage le smoking, no less), and everyone happily tipsy and eating (inhaling) cake.

Somewhere like Vegas or the Amalfi Coast would be suitable for such an event.

Of course, it will be very exclusive. Only those closest to me will be in attendance.

A custom hashtag…obviously necessary (#FinallyFifty), will be included on all Instagram posts. Although, by then, social media will probably be dead, or something (Facebook? So half a century ago).

Samantha Jones is partly to blame for my allure of the 50th year.

On those nights that my mom would fall asleep on the couch, I would casually switch the channel to watered-down (thanks, TBS) Sex and the City reruns, which proved very enlightening. Ms. Jones was clearly having a grand ol’ time, and created the mantra that 50 is fabulous.

A #girlboss before it was trendy, Samantha was a PR executive, only wore clothing that required confidence, lived life by her own rules, had a terrifyingly sarcastic sense of humor with a Manhattan apartment to match, and seemed mostly happy. Samantha was middle-aged, and she had it all, at least everything I wanted.  

While Samantha isn’t exactly my role model (nobody compares to Streisand), she’s always there as a reminder that life can only get better with age.

Not even 24 yet (my actual birthday is Super Bowl Sunday. I despise football), and I already know I have a lot to look forward to. A new roommate and apartment, adopting a cat, a freshly-launched business, getting my license (that’s entirely up to the lovely people at the DMV—please pass me!), a trip to Key West, seeing AC/DC in concert, and spending more time with the insane people I’m lucky enough to call friends.  

So thanks 23, you’ve been a blast, but I’m so over you.