I'm not big on birthdays primarily because the rest of my single-digit birthdays in the States never measured up to the ones my mom threw for me in Chiba. They were never consistently celebrated. I say this very jocularly: the lack of birthday cake traumatized my youth. See, fat kids love cake but they really love birthday cake and since I rarely had any, I cultivated disdain for the date January 18th. Before I developed my unbridled cynicism, I would wake up peppy as mint on my birthday. As an adult, it's usually a ritual on birthday mornings to stare into the bathroom mirror and acknowledge that I'm one year closer to leaving this mortal coil. So I'm a downer; sue me.
I think my anticipation for turning twenty-one fizzled away in an inverse relationship with the rise in prevalence of my underage drinking. Shit, we were copping handles easily as far back as 2004. Partying has become passe. Alcohol is not kind. It's deceitful. It's gotten me to slip my tongue more than a couple of times. Frankly, I liked being 20 better. It was a nice round number.
Thanks to Pat for the 31 flavors ice cream cake. FYI: The ice cream cake in England skips out on the cake component. It's really just one-third of the ice cream tub decorated with frosting.
Thanks to the bakers of 13 Bedford Place. Those were some really good chocolate chip cookies. Appreciated it.
And finally, thank you to the nation of Great Britain for the early birthday gift of alcohol legality. A death-wish in reality.