I turn 50 today. Fifty! I absolutely hate it.
I’ve been in a wretched mood for the past week or so. Milestone birthdays are not my thing. When I was turning 40, my wife asked me what I wanted, and I said, “To go on vacation and pretend I’m 36,” so she and I spent a week in the south of France. That was a good idea.
This time around I’m just crabby. The family has leaned into celebrating, on the assumption that they can happy me through it: multiple balloon assemblages, three birthday cards (one handmade), thoughtful gifts, dinner at the unquestionable Gramercy Tavern this evening. It’s all quite lovely and I love them for it.