I turned 30 years old on Saturday. I have decided to write about this not only because my mind is completely devoid of creative writing ideas but also because I hope to drive up the number of comments this post receives by guilting everyone into wishing me Happy Birthday and telling me how crazy young I look (see evidence at left). I suppose one could argue that along with wrinkles and gray hairs and an affinity for mom jeans and (apparently) a complete inability to write anything even remotely humorous turning 30 should give me the gift of maturity in the form of no longer needing to validate my life via brief commentary from people I do not actually know but I think we all know that would be ridiculous.
I celebrated my birthday in a number of ways. I honored the most delicious of the 5 food groups by supping at a restaurant entirely devoted to cheese. I was assured by the Republican presidential candidates that health care in America is totally rocking and most of the uninsured people are richies who simply do not want to waste their money on insurance which made me super happy because very soon I will probably start suffering from old age related maladies (and I also noticed that McCain was very giggly having apparently spent Saturday afternoon celebrating my birth by downing 14 pre-debate gin and tonics thus cementing his place as my favorite candidate who I will not vote for because he has aligned himself with evil (and believe me there is A LOT of competition for that title)). I put on more make up then is really appropriate if you’re not starring in Cats or trying to hide a birth defect. And then I watched some girls take their clothing off.
Inviting everyone out to a burlesque show on your birthday is the best way to thank people for a year of friendship. Especially the guy friends. It is also a good way to bid your own perky boobs ado (or, hopefully, inspire them to stand proud for as long as possible). As a bonus they also serve booze at the burlesque show which everyone knows is a requirement for ringing in middle age.
The best birthday gift that the universe gave to me was the scene I witnessed while in line for the bathroom. The line was located in the basement of the bar and was roughly 72 miles long. After I spent 10 minutes focusing on anything other than the possibility that I might pee in my pants and that I was not young or old enough to justify needing a clothing change a blonde lady walked past the queue of patient would be pee-ers and up to the bathroom door while drunk people yelled at her about the concept of lines and how they work. She reached the door right as it swung open and as she propelled herself over the threshold she turned to the line and said, “I really have to pee, is it ok if I just go first?” And then, without waiting for a response shut the door. This caused quite an uproar amongst the full bladder party and when she exited the bathroom (in her defense she did her business surprisingly fast) the entire line BOOED her. This was the most awesome New York City moment EVER.
The boobie show was also pretty sweet, it was hosted by Jesus – which I thought was a little cruel, making the son spend a whole evening introducing examples of his dad’s finest work -- and the girls brought out not only naked breasts but some pretty rocking hula hoop and tassel twirling skills and one wore some glittery red lipstick that I may have to come up with an excuse to purchase (“it makes me feel young”). It occurred to me that burlesque shows are likely even better than regular strip shows since they offer the bonus hotness of girl on girl action like me slipping ones into sparkly panties, my guests really should have been more thankful.
Regrets? I have a few. There was no ice cream eaten on my birthday – this bothers me so much that I devoted at least 30 minutes of Sunday to the question of if I could extend the healthy eating amnesty period one day in order to reconcile this unfortunate oversight. I probably should have shown more cleavage. I probably should feel more comfortable defining myself as an “adult.” Also, I’m pretty sure I was supposed to have purchased a house by now.
I turned 30 years old on Saturday. I have decided to write about this not only because my mind is completely devoid of creative writing ideas but also because I hope to drive up the number of comments this post receives by guilting everyone into wishing me Happy Birthday and telling me how crazy young I look (see evidence at left). I suppose one could argue that along with wrinkles and gray hairs and an affinity for mom jeans and (apparently) a complete inability to write anything even remotely humorous turning 30 should give me the gift of maturity in the form of no longer needing to validate my life via brief commentary from people I do not actually know but I think we all know that would be ridiculous. 
