Today is my birthday. I’m thirty years old.
I’m not sure what I think of this new decade. I was kind of liking the late twenties. Twenty-eight in particular had a comforting feel to it. Twenty-eight wasn’t that great of a year though; I’m expecting thirty will be better.
Mr. Haggarty says: Listen up, Snow. You are thirty years old. You are no longer your parents’ daughter. You are your own person now. It's time to get off your arse...
So this year I will apply for a mortgage...just to see what that feels like. And I will enroll in a writing class. Well, maybe I will...I think I said the same thing last year.
And tonight I will fetch Beth from the airport, and I will cook up a bouillabaisse in my big yellow pot, and I will gather my friends around my table. And tomorrow I will wake up to a bright, cold January morning, and I will put on a wooly sweater and take my old college friend and my boyfriend to my favorite café. And maybe to Christina’s for ice cream. Because it’s my birthday and I can have ice cream for breakfast if I want to. And tomorrow night is tapas at Dali. And a Tarta de Santiago birthday cake.
So the decade begins...