Tomorrow is my birthday, the day I turn 33. I haven't particularly looked forward to a birthday for three years, when I threw myself a 30th birthday bash in Madison Square Park -- and that was just to forget the fact that I was leaving my 20s.
But just because I'm not particularly looking forward to it doesn't mean that I dread it. And I expect this birthday to be better than my last -- it was Paul's first day at his new job in Columbus, while Edith and I remained in New York for the very last week. Talk about depressing.
When I was a kid, birthdays meant a big family get-together, with volleyball or baseball or a swim in the pond with my cousins. It meant presents in big boxes waiting to be unwrapped. (Back then, I just didn't get it when my parents said a restaurant gift card was all they wanted for Christmas. Now I understand.)
Of course, turning 33 isn't the same as turning 3 or 13 or even 23. I prefer to think that this evolution means I'm not as self-centered as I once was. But maybe I'm just getting boring.
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