I remember that when I turned twenty-four I kept thinking I was twenty-five. When people asked my age, I always had to think for a moment.
At twenty-five, I thought I was twenty-six. At twenty-seven, twenty-eight. But now that I'm here, at twenty-eight, I feel firmly planted in this age. Which is a nice sort of feeling.
I had such a good weekend. Birthdays are freeing things. I'm more courageous. I wear skirts and heels I'd normally think too short. I pull out my camera. I don't feel so bad about badgering my friends to take photos. Because in the conversation I have with myself in which I usually get nervous or shy or whatever, my birthday-self-rejoinder is, but it's my birthday! And the thing about having your birthday on a Friday is that you get to celebrate all weekend: drinks and dinner and late afternoon brunches. And you collect flowers like it's your job.
I have the loveliest friends. I am so lucky. No-nonsense friends who give pep-talks and listen patiently. Friends who let me cry and laugh in the span of a breath. Who bring me flowers and invite me last minute to dinner, just because they know I need to get out of the house. Friends who remind me the best is yet to come. Who tell me how beautiful I am and exclaim, this is the best possible thing , before I can see the sense of that thought. Friends who make my life rich in immeasurable ways. Friends who made the first few days of twenty-eight absolutely delicious.