I turned 25 on Saturday. Do you know how old that is? I’m halfway to 50. I’m entering a life stage where my friends are getting married and popping out babies. I’m one-quarter of a century.
And July 7th marked one year of being an unemployed/self-employed hobo.
I had a few friends over for pre-birthday drinks on Friday evening. I’m generally a birthday whore. Matt compares me to Jenna from 30 Rock, because when it’s my birthday, I want to celebrate for WEEKS. I adore the attention. I want to be showered with affection. I want to wear a birthday crown at the bar and hit on cute men. And after the bullshit weekend I had before returning to Newfoundland, I was indeed ready to celebrate.
So then my cousin Nancy shows up with a birthday card signed from a handful of my friends, saying, “We couldn’t afford much, we’re all broke.” I was genuinely happy to even receive a card, because I often fail at delivering mine on time (sorry, Roberta). And then she says, “Oh yeah, and we got you this” and pulls out a massive gift bag with a Tassimo brewer inside.
I actually feel bad for anyone who decides to ever propose to me, because not even an engagement ring could compare with my pure elation about receiving a Tassimo. Maggie and Nancy are witnesses.
I first experienced this coffee magic in Vancouver while visiting Dawne, and have been raving about it ever since. And although I was beside myself with happiness over actually receiving the brewer—something I couldn’t afford to buy anytime soon—it was really all about the fact that my friends pulled together and spent their hard earned money to buy me something really thoughtful. If I ever had any doubt about returning home, it was all erased this weekend.
The next morning, a few of us packed up our things and drove to Grand Falls-Windsor for the epic KISS concert at the Salmon Festival. I was reunited with my friend Ashley, who recently became engaged and asked me to stand in her wedding, and then we spent the entire day poolside drinking beers and grapetinis. We had games of football in the water. We danced on the patio, got too much sun, and ate mountains of hotdogs. I logged onto Facebook to find a million messages, including this amazing piece of writing from my buddy Alana:
I wish you a smörgåsbord of traditional birthday delights: Cake. Champagne. Drunken dance floor shenanigans. Bare-knuckle boxing. A double dutch competition and a rousing game of red rover. Free taxidermy samples. A ride in a helicopter that looks like a giant moustache. A well-stocked walk-in closet that takes your well dressed self to the version of Narnia with the good beer and the smooth-talking, pool-playing camels. Sunshine. Sticky ice cream hands, but only when you have wet naps too. Consistent spontaneity. Giggle fits. Family that are friends and friends that are family. Love. And the happiest birthday yet.
And despite the festival being a total waste of time and money (we bought $90 in beer tickets only to discover we couldn’t actually make it through the bar line-up, and then nobody gave us a refund), I still had the best birthday ever. For someone who has never experienced romance in her life, I have never felt so loved. Thank you all, for being a part of it!