To a Birthday

The arrival of a few cards and many discount coupons in my mailbox recently reminds me that it is my birthday this weekend. Okay, I'm lying, I've been looking forward to it for a month, though I'm not really sure why.

The number 24 is not high enough to really give me any dread of my birthday, but it does give me pause. Didn't I just turn 21 last year? Oh, wait, that was three years ago. And that was the last time I truly had something to be excited about on my birthday.

It's not that I don't celebrate in style. Last year I went to Ninja New York for a fabulously gimmicky meal, during which a guy sneaked up behind me and stuck a sword to my throat. It was amazing. But there is something imminently disappointing about adult birthday parties, in that they always remind you of the pure joy of the birthdays of your youth.

Yes, I had awesome birthday parties back in the day. I happen to be a twin, so my sister and I always had a party, usually rather large and with a particular theme. Our sweet 16 was called "Rock the Boat," because it featured, yes, live music on a boat. Our third birthday, a My Little Pony-themed party, featured a horse, which came when the pony became unavailable at the last minute. Somewhere in my parents' basement, there's video footage of this event- every single kid in our town, crying while riding a horse. Birthday number five involved a Barbie impersonator, while six, a troll-themed party, included a magician. Number ten involved twelve of our closest friends squished into a limo with us, waving crazily at everyone we passed.

They were fantastic parties, giving my mother an opportunity to dazzle our small town with her event-planning capabilities. Accordingly, our 21st birthday was an 80s Hair-aoke party, preceded by a family dinner at Tavern on the Green (not in 80s garb). Myself, my sister, my then-boyfriend, now husband, and one of my best friends rode together in a carriage through Central Park. However, it took us a while to find the carriage, and everyone was running late, so our grand entrance went unnoticed.

This was the fabulous part of my 21st birthday. On the actual day, I went to see a friend of mine from high school play a show at the Knitting Factory. They were a weird electropop duo with filthy lyrics, which was somewhat novel a few years ago, but it was a Thursday night and hardly anyone was there. My freshman year of college, I went to try to see the Mountain Goats there, only to find that I wasn't the only Mountain Goats fan in New York, and the tickets were sold out. However, I gained entry without even displaying my ID. A guy at the door asked, "Are you planning on drinking tonight?" I said no. "We're gonna give you that option anyway," the sleazy door guy said as he planted a stamp on my hand.

But things were much different at the Knitting Factory on that night of my 21st birthday. I was excited about the prospect of displaying my ID to prove that I was 21. When I got to the door, I was smiling, expecting hearty congratulations for having finally reached the legal drinking age. The guy at the door stared at my ID for a while. I had a Maryland provisional driver's license on which my picture appeared in profile, and the words "Under 21 Alcohol Prohibited" were printed in red all over it.
"I'm sorry," said the guy. "I can't let you drink."
"But it's my twenty-first birthday!" I whined. "Why would I have a fake ID that said 'Under 21' on it? Are you trying to ruin my birthday?"
"We don't have to serve anyone who gives us attitude," said the idiot at the door.
"I want to speak to the management," I retorted. "This is ridiculous. I've waited twenty-one years for this moment."
The idiot grudgingly made a call and in the meantime, pulled out a black folder that contained various state driver's licenses over the years. "We don't have to go here," said my boyfriend in a soothing voice, but I was mad. Why was this guy deliberately making me feel like a criminal on my birthday?
Eventually, the manager came out, looking weary. She asked me for my license, and angled it under the light. "You have to look for the hologram," she explained to the idiot. "It's his first night," she said apologetically.

So I was admitted, but the bartender wouldn't immediately serve me, because he'd been tipped off not to by some minion, and I had to wait for communication to happen with the door via the minion before I could get a crappy, overpriced drink. I spent the rest of the night getting over it, so we ended up at The Delancey, where something weird was always happening. I stopped going there when what I thought was a costumed Halloween party turned into a pagan ritual. I'm not joking. The place is bizarre, but it has a small roof garden that is just the place for commiserating over one's ruined birthday.

But now there will be none of that. I have a New York ID now that looks like everyone else's, but I'm rarely asked to display it. It saddens me a little when I go to a bar and I am served without being carded. Do I really look so much older than 20?

But of course I do, and of course my body is taking its natural course. Maybe the way I furrow my brow as I ponder a wine list also has something to do with it. In any case, a birthday is just another day. It will end, like all others, with scooping poop out of the cat litter box.

Cheers to another year.

B.S.