Thirty-Four

Today is my birthday.  I am 34.  This day has always felt magical to me, like anything is possible.  On this day, 17 years ago, I wished so hard that I would get kissed for the first time so I could stop practicing on my forearm.  Yes, I was a gigantic nerd, and I never did get that birthday kiss.  But in the last 17 years, I have kissed a lot of guys.  I mean, A LOT of guys (unless my parents are reading this, in which case I have kissed only three).  So I guess that means I’m kind of a big deal.  I am usually remiss in sharing my age; I’ve been 22 for the last twelve years.  But I am still smokin’ hot and being 34 gives that statement a lot more gravitas.  I mean, you don’t get to kiss ten (million) boys in your lifetime by being ugly.  More than that, I’ve got some battle scars from the last year and at 22, I couldn’t have done them justice.  I realize now that what makes this day, Boxing Day (the best thing about Canada), so special to me is more than having one magical day.  It’s about having one more magical year and using this day to stop and reflect; to count my war wounds and count my blessings; to set goals and wish for moments as exciting as my first kiss.   

Thirty-three.

I got laid off from my job this year.  Again.  It was scary and humiliating and frustrating.  I had a brand new mortgage.  I had a brand new surround sound system!  My juice cleanses were cut off.  I stopped shopping at Neiman Marcus.  It was terrifying.

I got my heart broken this year.  In an email.  On Thanksgiving Day.  Which I happened to read while (surprisingly enough) I was with my entire family.  It felt like I got sucker punched.  Through the smiles and jokes I forced for my family, all I wanted to do was crawl into a deep dark hole and cry.  I wanted to shed tears that sounded like a two year-old having a temper-tantrum, with random high-pitched screams and fist pounding and feet stomping thrown in for effect.  I wanted catharsis. I wanted comfort.  I wanted him. 

Those were two pretty hard blows, but 33 was still the most amazing year of my life.

I moved to a new city and made incredible, life-long friends.  I travelled to different countries and to Navy football games.  I saw my first Foxfield races.  I danced until the roof caught fire.  I bought an apartment, on my own, with my own money; and it is the most beautiful apartment in the history of apartments.  I drank my first gin-martini and it was absolutely delicious; I didn’t even have to pay for it.

I fell in love.  However fleeting and painful it turned out to be in the end, it was passionate and fun and beautiful and sexy.  And it gave me the promise for what I am capable of feeling and what someone, someday will be capable of feeling for me too.  As it turns out, that someone is probably going to be Jamie Foxx.  And we are probably going to get married.

Most of all, I got a fresh start.  Again.  I got a new job.  Lots of new jobs, actually.  After just over two months of being unemployed, I had my pick.  Having recently been rejected professionally and personally, it felt amazing to feel wanted again.  It felt magical. 

Thirty-four.

I’m moving to Manhattan.  It’s bitter sweet.  My new tenant came to look around the house and as she was telling me how much she loved it I got a lump in my throat and wanted to shove her out the door, then throw her jacket and purse out after her.  I love the life I had in Boston, but I’m so excited about moving to New York that I sometimes have difficulty sleeping.  That city catches my breath every time.  It is magnificent, electric, seductive; and moving there (again) scares the shit out of me. 

Turning another year older is daunting.  I don’t look quite as fresh or chipper first thing in the morning without makeup as my 22 year-old self.  I carry Tums to fight off Indigestion, my unwanted travel partner.  I worry about how many fertile years I have left and think about when the right time is to freeze my eggs.  I never had a thought of these issues in my twenties.  My thirties, layered with independence, responsibility and lactose intolerance, have been happier and more exciting than the entirety of its previous decade.  Thirty-three, with its highs and lows was truly extraordinary.  Thirty-four, with its wrinkles and achy bones, will be my greatest feat yet.  I am going to be the most fabulous version of myself and take Manhattan by storm.  Not just for today, but for the whole year, anything is possible.  My adventure starts now.