I have always loved being whatever age I am at the moment (nine! I’m nine! wee! Fourteen rulez! I’m twenty six! wee!) and this year is no exception. Thirty-three. 33. Double threes are really cool. I love the roundness of the number and the asymmetrical symmetry of turning 33 on the 13th.
I don’t remember what I did when I turned 13 on the 13th, back in 1987. I’m sure there was a party of some sort, involving my bff Alix, and a cake from Allen’s, which was a family tradition. I know I was in eighth grade, having a happy fall and going steady with a boy named John who was cute, geeky, shy, and played the trombone. He may have given me a birthday card, but I might be making that up. I do know he broke up with me a couple months later, for my friend Laura D, and she turned him down flat. Laura was the shit.
But I don’t remember much about turning 13, which is funny because it’s supposed to be a huge deal, you know, becoming a teenager and all. I’m sure I got something Monkees-related, and there were balloons. I love balloons.
They aren’t any balloons in the house this year, ’cause as much as I love their joyful defiance of gravity, I find them sort of wasteful now. But there are lots of pink things piled up in the living room; gift bags and cards in pink envelopes, and a pink and white pet bed which was supposed to be for a future dog-to-be, but has been commandeered by The Lant. There’s also the remains of a pink and white cake, and a craptastic Italian horror movie fresh from Netflix, and books galore.
Oh, and there’s gin.
So, it’s a happy day, with a crazy good weekend to come, when D gets back from business in Albany. I am as happy as a cat in a pink and white dog bed.
Especially ’cause I got this in my inbox: