Unprompted, every year I put up a birthday photo. You know, marking passage of time and all that. This is technically a 36-year-old about five hours away from officially turning 37. Yes, it’s in a bathroom. I was feeling fine, having a few beers at a generic upper east side Irish pub (there is literally no place drinkable up there). Little did I know that by 10pm I would be throwing up a $22 appetizer of saucisson et homard, pig trotter sausage, creamed spinach lobster, sauce américaine in a planter in front of Café Boulud and taking my entrée to go. Sucked. Birthday dinner sucked hard. (I’ve heard people say, “I can’t drink like I used to” and thought it was bullshit, but apparently as soon as you verge on 37, early beers, pre-dinner cocktail and wine with dinner do not mix.) Though my barely touched swordfish with razor clams and chorizo held up quite well. It’s probably the fanciest thing I’ve ever eaten while watching True Blood.
I’m still torn on the hair. No, no one believes I’m more than half gray because I’ve dabbled with semi-permanent dye. But that’s not my real color and if I lift up a chunk it’s completely silvery underneath. My real hair is dark, a shade below black and in this photo it’s brown and a weird brown that’s really just a tint on top of silver that fades every time I wash it but never goes completely back to white. I think I might just permanently dye the whole thing light brown or maybe those tea-colored hues like Japanese girls do. Doesn’t the one on the far left look gray?
On my real birthday I met a few friends at the strangely website-less Brooklyn Ice House (and Sunny’s). I didn’t even take photos initially (no fries or pulled pork sandwiches to be seen, I’m afraid) because I was feeling irrationally bummed out, not for feeling old, I don’t really, just because. I caved after I got a few Stevedores (PBR/Evan Williams shot combos) in me and the sun started fading.
Not my burger or salad.