When I turned twenty years old, all of my friends were 21. In Bellingham, Thursday nights during the school year meant 80s night, a costumed and musically-themed dance-and drink-a-thon at the local gay bar, Rumors. After a fun-filled dinner, every single one of my friends, barring my then boyfriend, left me alone to shake their asses to "Don't stop believin'."
On my 21st birthday, my parents' divorce papers went through.
September 1st, 2008 saw me sitting with a handful of friends, lamenting my imminent departure to Perpignan, France--which I was, at the time, dreading.
As a 23rd year old, I rang in my new year with a day of classes and students who barely knew me, and a lonely meal with the only person I knew within a 3,000 mile radius.
Last year, the only two people I could convince to spend time with me on my birthday were my then boyfriend and my most recent ex.
You could say I don't have the best birthday track record.
And this year, this quarter century, this big one? I'm spending it at work for seven hours, and then at a three or four hour in-service meeting for ITT Tech, all before I begin moving in to my new apartment.
Luckily, my conception of a "birthday" extends far beyond the twenty-four hour period surrounding the hour of my birth, and I have a sweet weekend planned.