An inconvenient truth

Another birthday has passed. It’s one of those nondescript, in-between birthdays that call for little or no celebration. You know, like how your first, sixth, 12th, 16th, and 18th mean something and are celebrated with some sort of fanfare (I cashed in on my 18th since I did not know how to dance and doing a cotillion would mean guaranteed spinsterhood for me), and the ones in between are done in the nearest McDonald’s or Pizza Hut. Needless to say I just turned 19. Kidding, but I am at that point where I will neurotically start lying about my age – it’s for the future, shave your years while you’re still relatively young rather than later. It will confuse people more, no one cares when you are in your 20’s but once you turn 30 certain frenemies will keep tabs if for no other reason than schadenfreude.

So I celebrated in style with a blueberry muffin from Starbucks with a pink candle given to me by my beau as he was getting coffee that afternoon. I was determined to make the most out of this new year of being me. I was scouting around for a bigger apartment earlier this year, since I got around to saving enough to buy me more square footage in this world. Of course, when the perfect apartment presented itself, I had just acquired the Gwyneth Harper’s Bazaar and decided that this was the best fall/winter season ever. Needless to say I abandoned my Shangri-La for a new wardrobe. So much for being mature.

So how old is old? Well, my definition of old is maybe being born in the Neolithic era like my dad. I swear he was so there when Peter Luger’s was just new – maybe I exaggerate, but his idea of jet-setting partying is a little dated. "If you’re doing Paris, only party in Maxims," he would say, to which I would reply with a grimace. The closest I got to that place is through a box of chocolates – is that even the same thing? "If you do New York, it’s only all about La Cote du Basque," he’ll advise proudly, to which I would nod thinking to myself: "Is that a fragrant candle?" Kidding – it’s quite good in a stuffy way. So I guess that’s old. But my dad is hardly mature. He still buys cars like a teenager, once trading my mother’s regal sedan for a Hummer ("That’s what the Terminator has!" he’ll say, as my mother starts convulsing over losing her car to a tank). He still thinks he’ll make his fortune playing lotto. On more than one occasion, friends have come up to me quizzically asking if it really was my dad standing in line to buy lotto tickets at 7 a.m. Of course it’s him.

So how do we know if we’re all grown up? Well, keeping abreast of current events is a good way to expand your horizons. Although when I heard about the liquid bombs and the new rule on having only clear carry-on luggage aboard planes, the first thing I thought about was not the loss of our liberties or the demise of modern living but the burning question of whether translucent Jelly Kelly’s will make a comeback with the jet set? Somehow, current events seem to translate into some staid form of fashion to me. So yes, that rumor is true: I am that shallow. I guess when we’re younger we get defensive and pretend we’re deeper beings than we truly are. When I was a teenager, I read Umberto Eco thinking this would make me a woman of the world. Later on, I found truth in a handbag and a ridiculous pair of shoes. My joys are contained in the simple things in life (granted, most of them have a wait list). I am no longer pretending. Well, yeah, that and family and friends, too.

Another thing is being able to hold your own during fancy dinners. I don’t mean talking about Ashlee Simpson’s new nose or who Paris is currently screwing. That’s super fun, of course, but will earn you no points. So after artfully dodging taboo dinner topics such as religion, politics and a new entrée, which is meat (I swear there are so many omnivores out there that if you are obnoxious enough to talk about how they’re missing out by removing Spam from their lives, trust me they will eat you alive despite their persuasions), now you have nothing left to talk about except tragic sh*t like kids or wine. So I advise you all, it’s not a crime to be a dilettante especially during a snoozy dinner but do know that you cannot sniff the cork of a Californian wine you bought in a 7-Eleven to look sophisticated. And if you cannot swirl – don’t even try. I once splashed some red in a friend’s face and her white Miu Miu dress. It’s a dinner killer.

Speaking of booze, I guess another way to seem mature although annoyingly, is to say you don’t go out anymore. Sh*t, I still party like a teenager although now it has decreased from being a daily thing to a once a week thing. Last week I went as a pink bunny complete with the furry costume to Embassy, so I can’t really drawl that I’m so over the scene. I think when I have kids one day, I’ll embarrass them by being the trying-hard mommy who parties with their friends. Well, they’ll just have to deal, I guess, and I’ll remind them of the pain of childbirth.

I’m coming to the conclusion that maybe we are all still kids no matter what decade we’re in. I believe that the age you set up your very own savings account is the age you’ll be forever. I did mine at 15 so I’m sort of doomed. But it’s not really such a bad thing to be a kidult. Looking at my dad, with so much optimism and excitement in his eyes that are slightly clouded by some pesky cataract, I realize it’s not bad to be him at all.