It was my birthday yesterday. And not just any birthday: ’twas my champagne birthday. I turned 30. I am now officially in my fourth decade. Not that it means a great deal to me; I’ve never been one to obsess about my age — lord knows I don’t miss anything prior to 20 — so I’ve been quite happy to age thus far. Not that I could do much about it if it upset me, I s’pose.
But it did mean a great deal to me that some friends came out with us last night, to wish me well in a manner more to my liking: no gifts or singing or whatnot, but a quiet and relaxed evening of enormous food and easy laughter. I’d never been to Morton’s, despite wanting to try it for years, so the nine of us had steaks the size of our heads (except the vegetarian and his companion, who probably weighed less than my steak anyway). T-Bone, who was still feeling shaky after her own birthday extravaganza the night before, not only polished off a huge steak and some wine, but ordered a chocolate soufflÃ© meant for two people. For those of you who haven’t met her, she’s about the size of my left leg, so this was not unimpressive.
Of course, all this only happened because my sweet wife planned & organized it all. She showed me a good day from start to finish: big greasy breakfast at a nearby deli on Bay Street and lunch at the Rebel House, a bottle of 21 year old Macallan Fine Oak, and of course the dinner with friends. She’s something, that one.
She’s also dawdling. We were up until 2 again, and apparently we’re heading out this morning with CBGB (they won’t tell me where…grr), but she’s not exactly catlike & efficient today, so it’s looking like I won’t be ready to go on time.
Oh well…I knew it when I married her.