This is the third or fourth night this week that I've heard people sing "Happy Birthday" in the garden across the street...they laugh and listen to music, and tonight they popped champagne. They're celebrating and happy and very East Village chic, and it all seems so glorious that it takes lots of willpower to not throw on a sundress (instead of the schlubby sweats that I've been wearing all week as I work on my final papers) and crash their shindig ASAP.
I was absolutely positive that my 21st birthday was going to involve several jazz clubs, dancing, tons of friends, and cocktails galore. I wanted that sacred moment where you flash your totally legitimate photo ID at the bartender with pride.
Now, I'm reconsidering: my close friends and an ice cream cake in the garden seems so lovely. Flowers and laughter in the moonlight is very Midsummer Night's Dream a la 2009, and it seems so much more me than a night of bar-hopping, however traditional that may be.
There'll still be cocktails galore, though. Some things never change.
