Birthday Wishes, Bougie Dreams

I'm turning another year older, and I love it!

Sing all the praises for another year!

Peter Pan isn’t just a book, movie, and stage play. For a lot of people, it’s a way of life, as they never want to grow up. Neverland is New York City — the residence of perpetual teenagers with six-figure salaries and Manhattanite Multi-Millionaires and Billionaires. While NYC is a place of intense grind and struggle, for a select few, it’s just opening night parties and endless free shit. For those of this class, there is no incentive to grow up even as you continue to grow older. Even if they marry. Even if they have kids. They’re still living a very high life that doesn’t resemble anything like how the rest of America, outside of the coastal cities, lives.

When my baby sister and her son came to visit me in Brooklyn for the first time this year, she remarked that I lived like I was “still in college.” As in, I was single, and most of my friends were highly social and also single, and we liked to hang out at each other’s homes or attend fancy parties. By contrast, my sister, who is three years younger than me, is a homeowner, has a child, owns a car, and is, by all measures, an adult regularly doing adult things like managing her 401k and mowing her lawn.

Can’t relate.

Her life is not dissimilar from the one our parents led — of parent-teacher organizations and taking the kid to practice. I’m the one going “Look at this picture of me partying with Carole Radziwill!” to her as I collect photos with former and current members of the Real Housewives like people collect Pokemon cards.

Like, I’m a very serious person until I am not.

I peaked late in life. In fact, you could argue I’m still peaking as I prepare to turn 46 this weekend. All I can think about is how next year could be even better as I seize new opportunities and pursue new dreams. Which is probably why I love my birthday so much. It’s proof that I did it again. I made it another year when I could have easily ended my life in my turbulent 20s when I struggled the most with my Bipolar disorder and clinical depression.

Some people pine for the past. Their past bodies, their past selves. The only thing I miss from my 20s is the time I lost being sick. When other people were out having adventures, falling in love, having kids, or partying, I was broke, living in dust belt cities drinking tequila at noon to get through my anxiety as I entered and exited various mental health facilities.

Today is such a total vibe, I never want it to end.

I love living in Neverland. But while others clutch on to youth like a gun, I have no problem getting older and growing up. Mostly because, for me, getting older has been an overwhelmingly positive experience. Getting older meant better jobs, enhancing my career, which meant more money, which meant living in better places and having nicer things, which led to having adventures and making friends. I feel like I’m better looking and in much better shape than I was a decade ago. I look forward to being 80 and hopefully looking back on my life and being pleased with the places I went and the things I did while still being too overdressed for whatever brunch I’ve sidled up to. I want to be like my play grandmother, Mrs. Long, who used to babysit me when I was a child. She’s in her 90s and is as spry, active, funny, and beautiful as ever.

Me and my former neighbor, babysitter and play grandmother, Mrs. Long.

Me and my grandmother, Corine.

I want to be like my grandmother, Corine, who rocked fur coats and fly outfits her entire life. She was even dressed to the nines in her coffin when we sent her off to be with her Lord and Savior at 93. I know that growing old can be this wonderful, beautiful thing, and I want it. I embrace it, as I am not afraid. It’s why I take so many pictures of myself and those I love. I saw growing up how much joy old photos brought my father. Having proof of the life you once led with the people you cherished most, is priceless.

So, per usual, I’m throwing myself a birthday party even though this is a non-milestone year because I don’t care. I love my birthday! I love my birth month. And I love celebrating every year I have survived since I moved back home in defeat in 2007. Sixteen years ago, I was a mess and didn’t want to be here, but I stuck with it and, in the end, I figured it out. It was the hardest thing I ever did, but I did it. And now I’m so grateful that I get to reap the rewards of learning my lessons and growing from my failures.

Thanks for the 46 years. Here’s the 46 more.