Party like it’s my 36th birthday

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As I’m nearing my 22nd birthday, I’ve been called upon to decide how I’d like to spend it. Easy: delicious food, a lot of drinks, and the company of my favourite people.

“You’re not going downtown?” several friends ask me.

“No,” I inform them, “I am not.”  

For the first time since becoming legal, I’ll be spending my day of birth in my abode, swigging wine in front of a crackling fire. Maybe this is the way you have always celebrated your birthday, and there’s a very good chance you’re cooler than me.

Perhaps this year’s change has been a long time coming; my clubbing days have almost entirely come to an end, save for the odd show at Sugar. Gone are the nights I craved to throw on a short dress and tear up the dance floor at Touch, the only reminder a sweaty club photo on Facebook. 

Don’t get me wrong: I still love to dance. I just prefer to do it at more low-key venues where guys don’t think buying me a drink is a ticket to fondle-town (swing dance with the rowdy older folks at Swan’s, anyone?). 

Secretly, I’ve always thought that the pre-drink is more fun than arriving at the night’s intended downtown locale. Think about it—you can listen to exactly the songs you like, you can have real, audible conversations with people, and you’re already with people you enjoy. 

Perhaps I’ve just gotten lazy, opting for jeans that don’t hug my ass just so, and being okay with that. I confess, I cannot remember the last time I used something other than my fingers to comb my hair, and the thought of curling it exhausts me. Have I lost my joie de vivre? Am I prematurely entering my eventual fate of dowdy cat lady? I have asked myself these questions honestly and the answer is no. 

Because there is nothing wrong with enjoying the simpler, quieter side of life. I will relish serving my birthday guests the vegetarian delights I concocted just for them. I will drink generously but not to the point of blacking out. And I will likely hit the hay well before 2 a.m.