Narozeniny

My roommate Eric said I should kick all my professors in the shins for having class on my birthday, 8am to 8:30pm.

Someone asked me the other day how old I was going to be and I actually had to stop and do the math to answer her. I remember, somewhere in the haze of my pre-adolescent history, being amazed at my mother one year when she couldn't quite remember how old she was turning. Birthdays were the MOST IMPORTANT THING EVER -- bigger even than Christmas, no sharing the spotlight or taking turns with presents. How could you not know?

But suddenly I don't quite know anymore, not offhand. Well, okay, I still love birthdays in a very childish and selfish way. I still revel in the chance to act like a prima donna for a day, to be silly and ostentatious, to get free drinks and stupid cards. But the numbers stopped mattering a while ago. When years don't signify grade level or driver's licenses or voting eligibility, you stop counting. I'm not a 17th-grader; I'm just firmly in my mid-twenties. I'm just a grown-up.

Maybe it's that the birthday day itself is not as big a deal anymore. No roller-skating parties or embarrassing posters all over the dorm. I can't specifically recall that I'm turning 24 because I can barely recall turning 22 or 23.

For some reason, though, I'm really looking forward to 27, which is not far off. I've always thought 27 will be a good year.