Yesterday was birthday numero 27. It was perfect. I woke up late, ate french toast in bed (thanks to husband), went for a jog in the rain, and got my nails painted a day-glo blue:
I decided that instead of gathering my friends in a restaurant somewhere and then insisting that I pay my share (because I can’t stand the idea of inviting people to a dinner where you expect them to pay for you, even if it’s your birthday), I would just host a pizza dinner and ask friends to bring the zucchini, peppers, cheese, etc.
My husband made the dough, and some homemade sausage (using our wedding-present Kitchen Aid mixer). AND, my parents were kind enough to let us use their centrally-located Edwardian San Francisco house as the venue. Our apartment is big enough for large dinner parties, but with friends scattered all over (south and north bay; San Francisco), San Francisco is just a lot easier to get to. Not to mention my parents’ abode has superior ambiance than my apartment, and I really like to mix my family with my friends (my dad and my brother/his girlfriend all dined with us).
It was a great evening filled with delicious homemade food and all my favorite (local) people in the same place. In the past, birthdays have filled me with anxiety and discomfort, probably because I’m an introvert who doesn’t revel in the spotlight. In fact, in 4th grade, on a ski trip with my friends and their parents, someone surprised me with cupcakes on my birthday and I ended up crying in the bathroom. I guess I just get… overwhelmed. Thankfully birthdays have gotten better for me over the years, and I can appreciate that they’re an excuse to spend time with your favorite people, and to even let certain people fuss over you.
We’ll see how I feel about three years from now, but in the meantime, I love birthdays.