When I was 7, birthdays were a very big deal. There were banners, cakes, parties, and games. It would be decades before I acknowledged my mother's creative abilities, but I'm sure that crafting Bert & Ernie pinatas out of papier-mache was harder than it looked. Birthday cakes were decorated by a woman named Lavonne, who lived on the gravel road next to our gravel road, and whose last name was something that sounded like 'pastry', but wasn't. My chosen cake design was probably something lame like rainbows and hearts, destined to be outdone by my sister's racecar theme a few months later. Still, seven was a good year, I think. Seven was fun. Seven felt like roller skates and surprises.
After that, birthday parties got smaller before they got bigger again. Thirteen was tough. Thirteen felt like devastating crushes and Firehouse songs. Seventeen was better. Seventeen felt like bonfires and ambition. I don't really remember birthdays in college until the year I turned 21. I remember twenty-one. Twenty-one felt like 99 Bananas and shame.
My 24th birthday fell during my first few weeks of law school. I'd chosen a school three states away in a city where I didn't know anyone. My mother, more confident than I in my ability to make friends quickly, called a local grocery store and ordered me a cake. She seemed certain that I would be celebrating with new friends, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't made any yet. When I picked up my cake and handed over my last twenty-five dollars, I looked down into the box. "Happy Birthday Pammi."
Pammi, which is not my name.
Pammi, which is the worst name in the history of names.
Pammi, who I think was the panda on Shirt Tails. After I got back to my apartment and unsuccessfully attempted to turn the "P" into a "T" with my finger, I started eating the cake directly out of the box and didn't stop until I'd eaten the entire thing two weeks later. Twenty-four was not good. Twenty-four felt like bulimia and failure.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Over the past several days, I've celebrated with family, co-workers, teammates, and my very best friends. Tomorrow, my friend Jackie will call and, for the 14th consecutive year, will sing me a song. Penelope will leave a message on my phone in a ridiculous voice that I won't understand. And one more time this year, with old friends, I will blow out the candles. Like every birthday before, this one feels different. It's more complicated than 7 but less confusing than 17...more sensible than 21 and less absurd than 24. As more time passes, I don't know exactly what I'll remember from this year, but I've loved those who have been a part of it. So thanks, guys, because I can't imagine thirty-one feeling any better than this.
