Or perhaps it might be easier to just say . . .
Easier, but not nearly as kind.
Yep, I’m turning 30, people. Watch out.
I don’t know what it is. In my head, I see my birthday going something like this:
Okay, maybe I don’t have a law degree, own a snazzy off-white blazer, or work in an office full of colleague executives, but you get the idea, yes? A birthday should entail exorbitant amounts of doting, the culmination of one’s friends in the same room, compliments in which people specifically bring attention to my lack of crow’s feet and frown lines. And a cake — preferably a rainbow-chip funfetti cake.
But somehow my birthdays usually end up looking more like this:
Party for one?