The Face of Thirty.

I turned Thirty Years Old on Saturday. I started freaking out about it a week or two before the actual day. I always thought I was too cool to do such a bourgeois thing like get all upset about my birthday. I was wrong.


My twenties were not at all what I expected them to be. Just thinking about where I was on my twentieth birthday makes me laugh. Things change fast. The balm to my anxiety was delivered by my family. They spoiled me rotten.

I woke up and Ol' Indie presented me with a massive gift certificate to The Black Sheep Wool Co. My mother gave me a chair she had found broken on the side of road and rebuilt and painted into a work of art. Then we went to the Farmers Market and bought a veritible ton of fruit. On the way home, I was dropped off at The Kura Door where I spent the afternoon getting a massage and a facial, getting cooked in the steam room and drinking tea in the tea room. The experience was funded by a gift certificate I won at a fundraiser for our family preschool (fifty percent of our kids have attended there, and the last twenty-five percent will attend when he's old enough). It was so great that I'm doing it again next year. It rained while I was there, making the day perfect.

Later, while children were watched by their grandmother, Indie and I put three bottles of Prosecco into the bike basket and rode to Takashi to meet several friends and siblings, but we discovered that the wait was going to be an hour and a half (I read in the paper today that Patrick Dempsey was there the night before and got the same story, so at least it wasn't personal). We walked down the street and ate at The Atlantic instead, where we were treated to an appropriately surly waitress, making the Continental feel that much more authentic.

We biked back home in the drizzle and went to bed. Life is so good.

P.S. Certain people have insinuated that just 'cause I ain't bragging on my knitting I ain't been knitting my knitting. They be wrong.