When I was a lot lot younger, I was a cynical little kid who disliked birthdays. I remember telling my mom what's so special about it? Why do people need birthday celebrations to make someone feel special? For the life of me, I do not know why I felt that way. Fortunately, I outgrew the pre-teenage protest against birthdays, and when I hit teenage years, birthday meant having your friends over which, for a teenager, is a really fun thing. And a couple of birthdays after, I was an adult, and consequently, birthdays meant nursing a bottle of wine and loneliness to boot. And it doesn't have to do with anything at present. It is simply the realization of growing another year older and getting nowhere near where you've always planned you should be. And those are the lucky ones. For the rest, it is the gut-wrenching realization that you still haven't figured things out.
So, yes. If I was gonna turn twenty-two, the age my mother met my father, the age she was sky-rocketing with her career, I sure as damn well need a cake, a candle, and a birthday wish.
The weekend after my birthday, I took my mom out for dinner and a little shopping as a post-Mother's Day celebration. We ate at Racks, which was absolutely delightful. I haven't eaten there in years.
|RACKS: Mississippi Mud Pie, Scampi Pasta, Baby Back Ribs|
A week after that, I went out with my cousins for lunch. And voila! A surprise:
|Taken by my cousin, Isabelle.|
I don't know why it mattered so much to me, but I can swear the moment I blew out those candles, it made all the difference in the world. It made me feel better. And at that moment, that was all that mattered. Don't we all just want to feel better? I finally had my cake and birthday wish. For all I care, I was officially ready to kick being-twenty-two's ass.