On 27 Years and Polite Company

I envied him most especially. the little african boy with the charcoal gray and fuschia trimmed two piece starter™ sweatsuit, hopping about madly on the metro’s tiled floor, little dreadlocks flapping along to the rhythm. he couldn’t have been older than 4 (couldn’t have been), and I? damn near 7 times his age, now that this date had made it official. he screamed and gestured wildly as the greenline, bound for shaw-howard and points beyond, finally arrived, to carry my tardy ass to the birthday party being prepared (with alacrity) in my absence.

I hurriedly trekked home to love and an evening of friendly faces. home being a funny word for it, being that my bed is elsewhere, and my birthplace another, but my heart, well, that’s where it resides.

so I hurried. and the evening, well, wonderful is only one word, and the up and down, from no people for the first few hours, to two for another 60 minutes, to the sudden swell of 30 close friends and friends of friends, is probably best described with several. maddening. depressing, at first. elation. rapture. joy. cool. delightful. exciting. comfortable. and most importantly (and for the benefit of anthony’s favorite reader), sexy.

thank you. thanks to my friends, for coming, getting along with each other, and only making a little bit of fun of the massive number of white candles that oppressed my chocolate cake. thanks to my parents, for giving me this day to call my own. my sisters for always being there to remind me how glad I am that I left home. my boss for not coming to the party. and finally, thank you, baby. you made my day.

happy belated birthday to me.