This morning we are en route to Paris. We arrive just after noon and shortly following I expect to be slowly sipping on my first glass of champagne. Three years ago we celebrated our birthdays in the City of Light and I can’t imagine a better tradition that deserves repeating.
Tomorrow I will be 27. We watched Frances Ha the other night (don’t bother) and one girl commented to another, “Twenty-seven is old.” Yeah,” the other responded, “it is.”
Can I go on the record and say that twenty-seven is not old? I’m getting a little weary of hearing my generational cohorts semi-seriously refer to those of us in our mid-to-late-twenties as “crypt keepers.” Twenty-seven feels more significant than twenty-six, I will begrudgingly give you that. But let me button up my hibiscus-printed short-sleeve button-down shirt and casually tuck my salt-and-pepper hair behind my ear in while I say, “Age is a state of mind, man.” I’m feeling young and I’m feeling fresh. So for now I’m going to take a delicate pass on the I’m-so-old-I-basically-need-a-walker, and What-does-it-take-to-get-a-Flomax-refill?! rhetoric.
Adam’s birthday falls on Sunday and—despite being a few years older than me—I think he’s feeling similarly youthful and spritely. I do hope this spirit continues: We still have a lot of living to do!