excuse the tardiness as this was written friday at 7 am and I forgot to post it bc they don’t teach you anything in college
GOOD MORNING EVERYONE from the warm, welcoming gates of JFK airport. I’m leaving New York for the weekend to meet my mom and sister in Martha’s Vineyard where we’ll stay with my brother until Monday. I have about 40 minutes until my plane starts boarding to scarf down this disgustingly spot-hitting egg and cheese bagel from Au Bon Pain, chug a cup of hazelnut flavored coffee (ugh I know) and tell you all about my 23rd birthday…all while trying/failing to not get too much grease all over my laptop. I feel like a real blogger! A writer on the go! Except I think if I were a real blogger I’d have like an iPad or something and I probably would have written this earlier.
So anyway, I turned 23 on Saturday. I was trying not to give it much thought because for whatever reason nearly everyone I’ve witnessed leave 22 behind has had some sort of mental breakdown. Something about not having achieved anything in their lives, with some guilt mixed in about continuing to let themselves have as much fun as they did when they were in college. This affects them in one of two ways: it either motivates them to leave town and pursue their ~wildest dreams~ or they suddenly fall into a 9 to 5 job and disappear forever. And I guess there is a third way, where the person just chills and becomes a bigger and bigger alcoholic (It’s okay if that’s you. Who am I to judge?)
Since this past year I’ve somehow traveled from the depths of the prolapsed anus known as “My Twenties” to an exciting world of endless possibility known as “My Twenties!” and in doing so I realized that…things don’t really get worse as you get older. They sometimes get way the fuck better. In my case, it wouldn’t take much to make 23 the best year yet.
(I recently saw my first New York doctor and after I answered a series of questions about my “personal history” she quietly asked if I wanted to see a list of therapists. I burst out laughing and then said, sure.)
I’m talking about turning neg vibes into pos vibes. I’m talking about embracing life no matter what age you are, and not letting people shame you into being someone you don’t want to be. This isn’t the fifties. This isn’t even the nineties. 23 means something totally different than it ever has. Just because you weren’t a prodigy doesn’t mean you won’t be successful. Just because you’re not in school doesn’t mean you have to make the leap straight from Biff to Willy Loman. Just because you like to have fun doesn’t make you an alcoholic. Look at your life! Look at your choices! Evaluate accordingly. If there’s something there you don’t like, change it. If you’re truly upset about something it’s probably more than just your age, and there is probably something you can do about it.
Upon realizing this I decided I had the right to celebrate the survival of another tumultuous year exactly as I normally would. No guilt. No shame. Just a Burger King crown and a lot of body glitter. We started the night off with a reservation for six at an Indian restaurant in the East Village called Milon. It’s part of a cluster of similarly themed locales one after another, any of which I could have been sucked into by their parade of street advertising were it not for my informed companions. This place is ridiculous. They pretty much give you a 1×4’ table to share with all the members of your party in a space about the size of a sleeper on the Darjeeling Limited* which you share with six or seven parties of the same size. The ceiling is made up completely of low hanging chilly pepper holiday lights and they play loud Bangladeshi music you can barely speak over. It’s amazing, and apparently it’s a popular birthday celebration spot because about every five or so minutes they’d flash the lights and bring out cake for someone. Of course I acted as though it was for me every single time. I ate enough food for about 16 people and forced everyone I saw to take a picture with me. Did I mention this place is BYOB?
*ignorant pop culture reference
When we got back to the apartment we proceeded to drink what was left of our spiced rum and champagne, and having already had a few bottles myself, I started making creations out of Elmer’s glue and glitter on my body while playing The-Dream videos and drawing all over my laptop with a paint pen. Um, surprise. I ended up covering the entire kitchen floor in glitter for days, which led to weeks, and now pretty much every item of clothing I own is covered in red and silver specks (an homage to The [original] Glitter Party of ’09 when I turned 20, after which people were found glitter on their dicks every day until Thanksgiving. You’re welcome).
After that I changed into some pants and we went to some party for Mexican Independence Day which apparently is NOT Cinco de Mayo? I really didn’t know much of what was going on at this point. All I remember is throwing confetti in the face of everyone I saw and Winston attempting to drink PBR out of three cans at once. By 2 am I was texting a crush explicit things such as (to paraphrase) that I wanted to eat him like Billy Madison eats a snack pack. I never heard back from him. He’s probably voting for Romney. Later I fell asleep in my clothes eating a can of lukewarm kidney beans and watching Seinfeld. The night had pretty much gone as planned.
Despite my stubborn attempts to cling to immaturity, I am making strides towards adulthood. I have a job with a decent wage now. I’m buying a Dustbuster for daily kitty litter and glitter clean-up (hello, spinster). I have decided to no longer travel long distances by bus (Pretty lofty. We’ll see.) And I am CONSIDERING paying for cable. I’ve also tossed around the idea of ~investing~ in non-bottom shelf liquors and ~keeping~ them in the house for more than 5 hours at a time. You know, practicing casual adult drinking instead of just chugging Four Loko and Andre all the time.
But you know. Baby steps.