remember turning 20. My roommate Tara had (unbeknownst to me) hired a stripper to appear at out party, and though the resulting cringe of that very event – the way his sweaty stubble burned when he rubbed his chest against my face, the way his tiny cockringed penis bobbed in that pink g-string-- was fodder for jokes, if not short stories (and nightmares), to come, it was also the best party I ever had.

For one thing, there were so many people there (to see my face ground into someone else’s nasty, steroid-pimply chest). For another, I felt utterly secure about those friends (which mitigates reason one).

At 21, of course, I spent my birthday in a bar; it was expensive and hot. I remember wondering why anyone would pay $10 for a martini when a six-pack of Keystone Light tall boys cost only a mere $6 at the cornerstore. In subsequent years, when my friends had left Austin for jobs and families, I wondered what exactly I was celebrating besides peristance. (These were not great years for me.)

At 25, I hit upon a brilliant idea: I would travel on my birthday, drive to San Fransisco to see my friend Julie. And the week-long trip that resulted – from Santa Fe, to the Grand Canyon, to Las Vegas, to LA – was mindblowing enough to distract me from whatever discomfort I might have felt at being 25 and floundering. (And, yes, I too rankle at the idea that I felt bad about turning 25.) That birthday created a pattern: I spent every birthday I could in transit -- in Ireland, in Peru, in the Great Smoky Moutains, and if things had worked out, I would have spent this year in Mexico, except that this year, I couldn’t. Too much work. Typical: Just when you think you need it the most, you have to stay at home. In some ways, that seems right.

Well, I just turned 30. When I say “just,” I mean it – the clock just turned midnight. I have to go to bed, and the battery is running out on my laptop, but I offer this: Back when I was 25, I thought life happened in years, terrifying years, that you had to run from. Which is not true. Life happens in smaller increments than that. Days, or minutes, even.

So I wish you a wonderful day. And another day, and another.