My birthday came and went. I’ve painlessly transitioned into being 24. It’s like my dad used to say, “It’s just another goddamn day.” Turning 24 is like turning 23 or 22, except slightly worse but not so bad that it’s even worth a complaint. I’m still in my early ’20s and completely invincible.
I ate nearly an entire cake that day, a mountain of pink frosting and spongy, red velvet cake layers. Heaven, really. Cake is one of my favorite things. It’s near the top of my list, with rubber bands and chewing gum. Having cake at a social event will drastically increase the chances that I’ll be in attendance. It’s the main reason to go to a wedding.
Along with cake, I received a small stack of books but only one phone call.
In the first 24 hours of my 24th year, I slept all day, neglected the gym, ate deep-fried sushi and cake before rolling around in bed with the best of company for the rest of the night. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect birthday. I was high on sugar and agonizingly in love.
Another goddamn day later, I was back to work. My manager got me a present, a stiff drink, and let me work for free. That was very extremely nice of him. Maybe too nice. “How does it feel to be his favorite?” the bartender asked me. I’m having more and more difficulty denying that I’m experiencing the benefits of favoritism. So much for trying to stay under the radar. We’ll see how this progresses.
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