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It’s June 2014 and I’ve just turned 21. Happy Birthday, me. Happy You-Made-It-21-Years. Happy You-Haven’t-Been-Happy-Since-April. The cards say Here’s to 21 More. Celebrate! Buy yourself something nice! The cards say Finally! At Last! It’s June 2014 and I am 21. It’s 2 AM and finally, at last, everyone has gone to bed. I’m not in bed. I am awake. There’s cake in the kitchen and beer bottles in the sink. There are balloons which are lit from the...
Tomorrow is my birthday, my eighth in New York. I belong to the camp of people who love birthdays. Mine falls early in July and coincides with two important things: Wimbledon and blueberries. Growing up, birthday mornings consisted of watching Agassi, Graf and Sharapova, and then Federer, Nadal, Djokovic and the Williams sisters, beat nearly everyone on mowed grass while I ate big bowls of blueberries in pools of cream and took intermittent sips of bottomless coffee for approximately four...
On my birthday last year I ran into a girl I’d gone to high school with. We hadn’t seen each other in almost a decade. It was the first warm day of spring, late March, and I was a beaming mess, wool coat over who knows what, giggling and smoking Camel filters next to a boy, sex hair at its all-time worst. Maybe I wasn’t wearing any pants? We would have liked that. All...

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