I turned 33 and there was no fanfare

Once you pass 30, birthdays get innocuous and people seem to care less. When you’re young, your mom bakes you a cake while you put on your fancy party dress and prance around the house. The novelty just seems to wear off when pink clashes with your self tanner, prancing would cause things to shake and come crashing to the floor, and you find yourself at the bakery buying your own birthday cake…

“Just put a big 33 on the cake,” I told the baker.
“What color would you like the writing in?”
“I don’t really care.”
“Well who’s the cake for, a girl or a boy?”
“It’s for me.”
“Oh.”


On purpose I went to two places on my birthday where I had to show my driver’s license. Starving for some sort of menial attention, I pointed out to both disinterested cashiers, “It’s my birthday.”

“Um, oh, Happy Birthday.”
“Yeah, thanks.”

But at 10:28 p.m., like my mom used to do, Matt sat up with me until the digital clock rang out 28 after and he planted me a big kiss. “Happy Birthday, honey.”