Happy birthday to all my fellow Aquarians and Happy birthday to me!

Last week I turned 39. (I know right, I’m too young to be this old.) I had thought entering the final year of my thirties might spur some kind of blues, or existential dread, or at minimum a rush of anxiety over the time passing. This was what I felt entering the final year of my twenties, a decade ago. At 29, unmet goals taunted me, my life remained un-figured out.

There’s no denying that unmet goals still taunt me at 39—many of them the same precious dreams I’ve always had. But instead of anxiety, or dread, or even the birthday blues, which I’m prone to, I was able to welcome my 39^th birthday feeling content, happy, and really freaking grateful.

I know this number, 39, isn’t supposed to be a milestone, but for me it felt like one. I celebrated with friends, with romance, with some light travel, and for maybe the first time ever, I didn’t feel weird celebrating myself—or wanting to.

We’re going full-on self-indulgence this week. I’m going to tell you all about my 39^th birthday, and why it was probably the best one ever.

Party Pooper

I haven’t planned a birthday party for myself since I was 23. At this time, I had dyed my hair red and was drinking a lot. My birthday celebration was at a Casino, of all fucking places, where we got a table at a nightclub, of all fucking things, and partied the night away. I guess this is what 23-year-olds do.

Since then, I’ve been reticent to plan a party. A solo trip or couples’ getaway? Sure. A fun day out with a best friend? Definitely. A sweet dinner and walkabout with family? Yeah. But a party? With friends? An event just for me? Never.

I planned a surprise 30^th party for my ex years ago. I planned a surprise 50^th bash for my mom that was quite a success and a ton of fun. And I planned a surprise 40^th birthday party for one of my best friends, alongside her husband and family. I definitely wouldn’t call myself a natural “planner”, but given the right circumstance, the right person, I’ll do it.

The reason for my hesitation to plan a party for myself? Simple. Obvious, I didn’t think anyone would come.

When I turned 30, my ex threw me a surprise party, which made me feel equal parts loved and embarrassed. I don’t mean embarrassed in the good way like “Aw shucks, guys, you showed up for little old me?!”  I mean embarrassed in the way that makes you want to turn invisible. It’s not that I loathed the spotlight, or whatever, instead it was the makeup of the crowd gathered. As grateful as I was to all our friends who came out to celebrate me, I couldn’t help but notice something important: they were her friends. My ex’s, that is. Nearly all of the people who showed were friends I’d gained through my relationship, friends I would lose when it ended two years later. My friends, noticeably absent, were party friends. And apparently this party wasn’t hot enough. The realization stung.

I did my best to have fun and be thankful instead of looking like an ungrateful little bitch. But wow, that experience was impactful.

Birthday Blues

Since the end of that relationship, I’ve battled bouts of the birthday blues when the day was creeping up. Each year feels like a new chapter in the story, it prompts us to take stock of our lives, see the places where we’re crushing it, and, of course, where we’re falling short. Over the years there have been many a late January where I’ve felt unable to focus on the first part, seeing instead only the unmet goals, the too-small bank accounts, the chards of shattered romances—or worse, the ones ongoing but without depth.

I’ve been perpetually single—flings and relationships of varying importance all strung together like popcorn garland, long stretches of fine thread, “Alone”, between them. Romantic relationships aren’t everything, of course. So, then I turn to my friends, scattered ‘round the country, convince myself that I’m lacking here, too. That the distance signifies something more—a lack of care, of reciprocity? I look at all the times I’ve flown to them, I’ve celebrated them, and where was my celebration? True, I didn’t plan anything, but isn’t it fun when we get to wallow in our fairytales, believe in our suffering?

Though I almost always end up having a fun, satisfying, happy birthday in the end, the lead-up to the day can bring about a lot of feelings. Can be rather dramatic, if I’m being honest.

Last year was one of the hardest of my life. (If you don’t know why, click here for Context.) The melancholy I felt leading up to my 38^th birthday was inky black after months of sorrow flooding my system. It makes my breath catch to think about that fall and winter. The 27^th of January was a quiet, happy birthday, spent with my mom and grandmother, a tiny bright spot. But the time surrounding it was bleak and painful and dark. It’s a year marked by grief, and can’t ever be unmarked as so.

I guess I’m just bringing this up to show contrast. Because all throughout this season of air-sign celebrating, I couldn’t help but think back on where I’d been, and not too long ago.

A Whole New World

It was a few months after this birthday that I decided to shake up my life. I thought maybe I’d try moving to San Diego, a place I’d always wanted to live. If you’ve followed along, you know how this story went. In May I flew across the country, and bought my car a comfy ride on a shipping truck to meet me there, and started the process of settling in and building a life.

I worked hard, putting myself out there far more than what felt like a comfortable amount. I attended events alone and talked to strangers and awkwardly asked for their information. I showed up to everything I was invited to when I was home, even if I felt tired or not quite up to it, knowing if I didn’t the invites would cease. I joined a club, I tried dating apps, I met up with random people from Facebook groups. And it all paid off.

The whole fucking thing worked, and more beautifully than I could have ever predicted.

Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake

Last week, for the first time in more than 15 years, I threw myself a birthday party. I invited all my friends, and lots of acquaintances I’ve met and liked. I sent out invitations, anxious after sending because who am I to plan a party that surely no one would come to?

It was to be a picnic in the park. Pizza. Cake. Sitting on blankets in the sun. Lawn games. As a winter baby who grew up in New England, the prospect of being OUTSIDE on my birthday and not freezing to death was so exciting. I also liked the idea of a low-key birthday party where people could come and go as they pleased. (You know, in case no one showed up.) The RSVPs rolled in, Yes after Yes, but don’t worry, I kept my optimism in check, thinking many of them would probably decide not to come after all.

The thing that threw a wrench into my plan turned out to be not my friends bailing, but instead the weather. Sunny San Diego, the land of perpetual 70 degrees scheduled itself a rainstorm on the day of my picnic. Dun dun dun…

Don’t worry, it all worked out fine. I found a Plan B, then made it my Plan A.

Instead of a picnic in the park, I had my birthday party at Punchbowl Social, a restaurant, bar, and game warehouse. It ended up being the perfect spot for a party. The place was huge, and I didn’t have to make a reservation. People could come and go as they pleased and open as many separate checks as they wanted. There was food for the hungry, drinks for the thirsty, mocktails for the dry. There were arcade games and darts and bowling and even karaoke rooms (which unfortunately were rented for another event). Best of all, I didn’t have to worry about who would show up or not. If it ended up being me and three of my closest friends, I knew we could have a good time with the ingredients above.