Twenty-Eight

So, today has been my 28th birthday. Thanks for the greetings!

Yup — at 10:20 a.m. on the morning of December 27, 1973, I was born in a hospital on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. My dad remembers being in the hospital while my mom was in labor. He looked out the window and he could see the trucks moving Mayor John Lindsay’s belongings out of Gracie Mansion, and moving Mayor Abe Beame’s belongings in.

I’ve always felt lucky that my birthday falls in the middle of the holiday season. I never had to go to school on my birthday. (The downside, of course, was that we never celebrated my birthday with cupcakes in class.) It’s always been such an eventful week — Christmas is still echoing in people’s hearts, and the media is starting to review the year just past, and everyone is getting ready for New Year’s Eve, and all the Christmas decorations are overripe. My birthday occurs during the most enjoyable week of the year, and that’s always made me happy.

And I’ve been fortunate to have spent my birthdays in some pretty great places. When we lived in the Far East, we’d always travel during Christmas vacation. So I’ve celebrated birthdays in Hong Kong, Thailand, Australia… and also London, Florida, and Las Vegas. And of course New York. (Not to mention New Jersey.)

My worst birthday was my 17th, at the end of 1990. We were in Thailand, in Phuket (which is pronounced “phoo-KET” but which I prefer to pronounce “fuck it”). I was swimming in the pool at our hotel, and as I got out, I scraped my toe against the side of the pool, underwater. I didn’t feel any pain, but when I got out, the side of my left big toe was gushing blood. My parents took me up to the room and I leaned my foot over the bathtub, and it was still gushing. Somehow there was a small chunk of skin missing from next to my toe, about an eighth of an inch thick. My parents didn’t want to take me to some random doctor in southern Thailand, so ever since my 17th birthday I’ve had a scar on the side of my toe. You pay the price for luxury sometimes.

Today wasn’t like that. It was nice. I did go to work, but it was another slow, uneventful day. At night I met up with my parents and my brother and his girlfriend for dinner in midtown Manhattan. Before meeting them, however, I finally walked over to Rockefeller Center and saw the tree, lit up in red, white and blue — and all the international flags were replaced with American flags. Dozens of American flags, everywhere. A bit jingoistic, but quite pretty, too.

We had dinner at DB Bistro Moderne, a new restuarant owned by Daniel Bouloud, who also owns an apparently well-known restaurant in the city called Daniel. I had their legendary $27 burger. A burger isn’t something you’d think of having at a nice restaurant, but this was quite a burger, stuffed with foie gras, short ribs, and something else, and it was incredibly thick and yummy, and came with these airy ethereal potato puffs.

And for my birthday my parents got me a digital camera. This means that I’ll soon be clogging up my site with photos of everything imaginable.

We had a really enjoyable meal together. My mom got tipsy, which was fun. I love my family, you know that? I do. We’re close with each other, and we get along great, and we have our own private jokes like other families do.

It was a nice way to spend my 28th birthday. And as I sit here typing this, I’m having all these warm, cozy feelings.

On top of that, today was my last day of work until January 2. I had a couple of days of leave that I had to use by the end of the year or else I’d lose them. So after a four-day weekend and a two-day work week, I’m at the start of another five-day weekend. Ahh…

Life is good. Happy Birthday, me.