I'm turning 33 tomorrow—although since you are most likely reading this on Friday the 8th, I'm actually turning 33 today, right as we speak—and I have planned the waking hours of my birthday as though they were a military operation. They would be a pretty cushy military operation, I have to say—doubtful that Operation Valiant Eagle would include any spa time, for example—but I do nevertheless have a pretty meticulous plan in place for my first day as a 33-year-old, and it begins with not going to work.
Have you ever taken the day off on your birthday? I was in two minds about whether I wanted to or not—one of my minds was campaigning pretty heavily for going into the office, because this was the mind that knew there would be cake—but I decided in the end to take the vacation day and turn it into a bit of a Treat Yo'Self instead.
So first I'm having lunch with Sean at my favorite sandwich place downtown, then I'm using a Groupon I bought last year to have a massage and a facial at a fancy hotel spa. (A massage and a facial! What? I have never before had the two any closer than a year apart, let alone on the same day.) After that, I'm going to do a little bit of shopping—mostly of the window variety, I suspect, although I shall certainly be calling into Sephora for my free birthday gift—and then I'm meeting Sean at a wine bar on the water where you can order a wheel of Cowgirl Creamery cheese and a loaf of Acme bread along with your drinks and nobody looks at you quizically and says "bread and cheese for dinner?"
(Yes, bread and cheese for dinner! Food of the gods. Keep your pan-roasted quail!)
I did have a brief moment of panic when I realized I had nothing planned between the hours of waking up and going downtown for lunch (apart from my customary Trader Joe's chocolate croissant), but then I got an email about an estate sale in my neighborhood—which is a lame neighborhood for hot bars, by the way, but a great neighborhood for estate sales, because there are lots of old people out here and then they die—and I thought well, what do you know, TURNS OUT THE UNIVERSE IS LISTENING. This particular estate sale, according to the email, is rumored to have "tons of 1950s and 60s curios" and since I usually have to make do with turning up on Saturday or Sunday when all the good stuff is already gone, I'm pretty convinced this means I'm going to find the most spectacular birthday treasure. And if not, well, hey, it's fun to root around in someone else's old kitchen junk drawer for a while.
So that right there sounds like a pretty perfect day to me—carbohydrates, shopping, having a perfect stranger pummel my skin while I lie supine on a table in a darkened room—and I'm excited to go to bed tonight so I can wake up in the morning and kick it all off. 32 has been a great year—a wonderful year, in fact—but do you know, I'm thinking 33 might shape up to be an even better one.