It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

It’s my birthday today! And I’m not that excited about it.

I’m now closer to 30 than 20, and that makes my breath get caught in my throat, and my heart flutter worriedly in my chest. You’ll roll your eyes and scoff at me, but birthdays haven’t been exciting for me since after I turned 21.

Growing up, all I ever wanted to be was 18. That way, I could drink legally, go to clubs without having to sneak out the window, and claim my adulthood with pride and entitlement.

Nineteen and 20 flew by unnoticeably in an always-half-drunk blur of varsity. Then came 21, with its big party that took three months to plan, involving a gold tutu and some drunk people resembling the likes of Tina Turner, Bob Marley and the pope.

In my old age I find I often forget how old I actually am. When I was 22 I received a call from an American summer camp, asking if I was interested in joining the team for a year. When asked how old I was, I matter-of-factly replied, “Oh, I’m 19!” Except I wasn’t. I’d just forgot I was actually 22.

So today is my birthday and I’m celebrating it with my CLEO team, eating baked goods and wallowing in my silly misery. At least I’ll always be more than a decade younger than BF!