Last night I went out as a 20 year-old, and came back as a 21 year-old.
I went with a roommate and some others from upstairs to a party. Many grad students and people with real jobs were there. I was jealous of everything but the receding hairlines. The rooms were filled with expensive, vintage furniture, and the walls of the living room were periwinkle. Oh, to be a grownup!
We left early. Despite want to fit in and the rum and Coke filtering through my blood stream, I still felt like an awkward freshman at a frat party. We were almost home by midnight, and my friends sang happy birthday to me on the Red Line. I surely blushed, but nobody commented on my embarrassment.
Got a phone call while trying to fall asleep to "Field of Dreams". Thought it might be Kyle, but it was my ex. Hah. He didn't even know it was my birthday, just wanted to return a drunk dial call (I called him on St. Patrick's Day). He was pleasant and wished me a happy birthday, and I tried to pretend like all hard feelings are gone. I seriously doubt that we'll ever see each other again, unless we both decide to go to our class reunion.
Going to meet Kyle at his brother's apartment soon. I'm ridiculously giddy and excited. Happy Birthday to Me!