The Roaring 20s
It is questionably the happiest time of the year.
A time when the Ghost of Birthdays Past and I meet for coffee to reminisce and acknowledge just how darn far I’ve come. A time when I get e-mails from MSN wishing me the best on my special day while informing me I can celebrate alongside Ewan McGregor, Shirley Jones, Richard Chamberlain, and Al Gore (Aries unite!). A time when Bluewater Grill sends me a twenty-dollar gift certificate to enjoy a nice seafood dinner on them. A time when I get my name on the Thursday night guest list at Arena so I can shake my aging butt to music I am steadily growing tired of (actually, thanks to one Mr. Jon Unger, I was able to enter through V.I.P. this time). A time to receive my coupon for a complimentary Aveda product down at the Beverly Center. A time to try a shot of indeterminate alcohol handed to me by a close friend who firmly believes that it is my American right to "get s**tfaced" on the day doctors C-sectioned my fetal self out of my mommy 26 years ago.
When I turned 6, my family planned a surprise party at the Ground Round on Central Avenue in Yonkers, complete with my whole kindergarten class, a goofy clown who performed magic, and an adorable Cabbage Patch Doll that bought my status among the He-Man and She-Ra set.
When I turned 16, my mother helped me plan a bash in the party room of our basement that also functioned as a reunion for the Class of ‘94 from Blessed Sacrament Elementary. It was a chance to see old faces from junior high, eat some Subway sandwiches while listening to La Bouche’s "Be My Lover" (thanks Club Mix ‘96), and get some gift certificates to the Gap.
When I turned 26, I threw my own party at Oasis in Hollywood, complete with a private room, a deejay in the form of the bartender’s iPod, and monster martinis made for me and my marvelous muchachos and muchachas (say that five times fast).
All week I felt the anxiousness that usually accompanies an impending birthday. I would wake up before my alarm clock, my nerves acting up before I could grab the nearest latte. It’s easy to say, "It’s just a number, it’s just another day," but to many us it’s a reminder of where we are in life, how satisfied we are with what we have, and why we haven’t reached the destination we dreamed of five years ago when we first packed our bags and headed off into the clouded sunset. But why concern yourself with all the whos, whys, hows, and whats? A wise friend once blogged "they just get in the way of a vivid imagination that contains the smallest happiness."
Rock on with your philosophical, poetic self Ms. Carno.
When I was turning 6, I was only excited about presents, cake and colorful decorations hung in my honor. Now, the excitement is more like an anxiety. The rainbow curtain has been ripped down to reveal the dull, gray realities that have been hiding from me all these years. Cash gifts? Yay, I get to pay off my overdue car loan. A surprise strawberry shortcake at work? Great, more minutes on the treadmill. But it’s not all gloom and doom. Of course I know how to celebrate. And celebrate I did…
It was a more modest gathering compared to last year’s can-you-top-this "H 2 5." An intimate dinner with Karim, Swaga, Doug, and the new-to-L.A. Wendy at Buddha’s Belly started the rainy evening (don’t even get me started on the crap weather we’ve having here for the past two months). Filet mignon in a peppercorn sauce with a side of mashed pumpkin and broccolini was just the meal for which my stomach yearned. We then arrived at Oasis fashionably late because, according to the Book of L.A. Birthday Etiquette, one can show up to the main event as if he had been returning from a previous, just-as-important engagement. My loyal subjects can wait!
Two caramel apple martinis, one rum and coke, a lemon drop shot, and a gin and tonic later, "16+10 Candles" was in full swing. Evidence can be obtained for your observation here: http://www.ringo.com/photos/album.html?albumId=38181274.
Guests started to trickle out around 1 (after all, it WAS a Friday night; us old folk need some sleep). I gathered my gifts and greeting cards, packed my camera away, and stepped out into the wet night. I hitched a ride with friends who were in search of some late-night munchies. We stormed the gates of a 24-hour Del Taco and inhaled some cheesy goodness. The place was spotted with other young people, probably coming from the 18+ club down the street. I stopped chewing on my quesadilla when I did the math in my head and realized: We’re surrounded by people who could have been born in 1988. I remember ‘88 vividly. Third grade. "Dynasty" entering its final season. "Big" starring a skinny Tom Hanks. Steve Winwood’s "Higher Love."
A mental shudder, a sip of cherry Coke, and we were out of there.
My bed was waiting for me. The party was over.
So, a thank you card to all who conspired with me to make another memorable evening, to all who helped me bid adieu to the early 20s and launch myself into the roaring years to come. I love you all.
F**k, I’m old.
H.P.M
