Birthday thoughts; 22nd edition
I turned 22 the week before last, of course it didn’t really feel like it… in the same way none of the young adult rites of passage have really hit me over the past two years. I used to fantasize about my birthday for months in advance. I had countdowns and gift lists, party plans and cake preferences. I suppose that’s a phase that most adolescents slowly grow out of, but this year in particular, I felt a distinct lack in connection to the 365-day marker of my life. My age as well. That’s not to say I didn’t have a wonderful birthday this year, in fact I couldn’t have asked for anything better. But it was a day just as good as any other one. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, really I think it’s a testament to how great every day is for me out here––birthday cake or not.
On August 24, 2021, I woke up for work as usual. I had arguably a bit more pep in my step as I strutted into the kitchen for breakfast feeling as if I had a trick up my sleeve, a secret birthday that no one knew about aside from McKenna and Mark. I selfishly expected to waltz into my morning meal with Taylor Swift’s “22” blasting from the radio and special pancakes covered in whipped cream and sprinkles to be waiting for me in the staff room. But alas, the speaker was blasting Chef Jame’s typical old school rap, and the pancakes I ordered looked business as usual.
I began working by myself seeing as it was the part-time housekeeper’s day off, but even when I interacted with Susan, I couldn’t bring myself to insert my birthday into conversation.
“I left your room report in the linen room.” She said as she briskly walked past me mopping the hallway.
“How crazy is it today?” I asked jokingly.
“Not bad, only six or seven outs.” Sue replied.
“A birthday miracle!” I said with a smile. She didn’t seem to understand the reference and instead offered a brief awkward laugh before heading down to the lobby. I’m not sure why I wanted her to know it was my birthday so badly. Maybe I wanted her to think of me as the kind of hard worker who doesn’t care whether or not they work on important days that most people take off. Either way I felt silly for both trying to bring it up and simultaneously not having the gaul to just say it up front.
Age is a funny thing in general under most circumstances, but on Monhegan it’s an especially strange and irrelevant aspect of the average person you meet. I’ve mis-aged essentially everyone I’ve ever encountered here (minus one new girl at the Yew who I somehow hit the nail on the head with with a 24-year-old guess). I tend to undershoot on my assumptions which is always such a crowd pleaser and people always think you’re trying to flatter them, but in reality I just genuinely get it mixed up. Most of the underaged folk seem more mature to me than the middle-aged ones, yet the 35-year-olds look ten years younger.
Interestingly enough, age only really comes up in the context of self-deprecation humor from my older acquaintances. But unless it specifically relates to something like a birthday or a legal restriction on things like drinking or voting, nobody really asks each other how old they are. It just feels so trivial. We all hang out together in spite of our age differences. I mean on the average Friday night I probably drink with an exactly even amount of 18 to 50-year-olds, and you’ll get no complaints from me about it. I actually really enjoy finding common ground with those younger and older than myself. It makes me feel mature yet fun and cool, adaptable too. Imagine if we spent our entire lives only interacting with mutuals of the exact same age. We’d have nothing to look forward to and everything to take for granted.
But back to my actual birthday. I got out of work pretty early on seeing as Susan and I only had about three turnovers each. Once I got back to my room after clocking out, I found a sweet card on my nightstand from my friend Sydney with a beautiful message inside that made me beam from ear to ear.
Elise was leaving for school on the 12:30 PM ferry so we rallied the Monhegan House troops and piled into Mark’s truck to head to the wharf and jump together. The ordeal was actually incredibly beautiful––arguably the best and most emotional turnout for an individual’s departure We played a song that has the lyric “this one’s for Elise” just as the boat pulled away and Elise’s recent summer fling even managed to dash down and lean across the boat handrail to plant one last romantic kiss on her before we all plunged into the frigid water. After that, Emmett and I hung out at the barn for a bit to plan out my evening birthday party festivities before heading downtown for a booze run and BLTs from the Fish House on the beach. We decided to hold my function at the ball field for the least amount of sound complaint potential (plus we just hadn’t done anything there in a while, Mölkky sort of fizzled out this season unfortunately after the main organizer left).
At 4 PM I returned to work to finish up my last hour and a half of public bathroom cleaning and the end-of-day inn check list. Dinner was a less-than-appealing pasta concoction that incorporated leftovers from the prior morning’s biscuits and gravy breakfast special so I decided to gamble on a post-party drunk dinner elsewhere (which somehow I did indeed receive).
I showered after that and called my mom because it felt like a sin to not speak with at least one family member on my birthday. We gave our usual highlight reel of life updates which are becoming more and more intense the longer I stay out of the loop: house sales, house purchases, wedding details, new jobs, travel plans, etc. Then in my usual pre-party ritual I began to get all dressed up for nightly activities. I put on a cute little green skirt and one-piece top because even on an island, I think one should always dress up on their birthday.
Feeling as though I no longer wanted to be alone and 6 PM felt like a reasonable time to start drinking, I cracked a Truly (I know, not quite the same energy as my delicious first legal cocktail at Tuscan Table from the year before, but I was working with limited Monhegan Store resources) and started to walk around town looking for familiar faces. Not sure if I’ve actually mentioned it before but Monhegan is an open container island meaning you can legally stumble around town, open beer in-hand without fear of judgement or persecution (well maybe a little judgement if you’re downright hammered, but still)! I came across a friend named Mo during my walk who invited me back to hers. I stopped in at home briefly beforehand to find the sweetest card, bar of chocolate, art pencil, flower bouquet, and bottle of Pét Nat from Mark sitting neatly in my room. I truly am spoiled by the generosity of my fellow islanders.
I regrouped with Mo and her dog on their porch afterwards and we talked about Mo’s recent long-distance love life as the sun went down in a perfect explosion of neon pink and orange. Then Emmett showed up, followed by John, Amanda and a few other Fish House employees. Emmett and I left after a bit to grab drinks with McKenna and her parents who were visiting for a few days. We drank Moscow mules and talked about Monhegan and the usual parent-of-the-friend topics. Anxious that everyone would show up to the ball fields early and think there was indeed no party going on, Emmett insisted that we walk up early and meet party goers upon their arrival. Along the way we stopped at a friend’s place who graciously offered me use of their bathroom and a celebratory shot of vodka. Unsurprisingly, nobody was at the ball field when we showed up, so we watched stars for a little while before clusters of employees from the various Monhegan establishments began to filter in with speakers, alcohol, and energy to dance.
With the exception of a few audio malfunctions, we all danced the night away, indulged in our respective poisons and completely let loose. The party came to a natural close a few hours later, but as if my hunger had manifested a miracle, I stumbled (literally) across Amanda who invited me back to her house for authentic spicy Tinga quesadillas. Amanda is this badass lady who works at the Fish House and lives with Mo. She comes from a surfer town in Mexico and makes some of the best Spanish food I’ve ever consumed, so naturally, Emmett and I immediately agreed to keep the night going with some bomb late dinner.
As usual, the house was filled with smoke and the regular adult crowd sipping on tequila, glasses of wine, and heavy IPAs. The quesadillas were INSANE, jam-packed with avocado, slow-cooked Tinga chicken, cilantro, homemade refried beans, melty cheese, and some kind of spicy pepper or sauce that packed a fiery punch.
After realizing that what had felt like a thirty-minute pit stop was indeed a two-hour afterparty, I headed home to catch about four hours of sleep in preparation for work the next morning. And that was that. A work day turned to an afternoon off; A morning that became night; A party that transformed to rest; A day come and gone just like any other.
If there were a word for feeling more than blessed I would use it to describe how grateful I am for my 21st year. This trip around the sun has been filled to the brim with more challenge, reward, growth, and self-acceptance than I ever thought possible and I couldn't be more thankful nor proud of myself for that. I don't really believe in ultimate life peaks or "best years of our lives," but if 22 holds just half of the gusto that 21 did, I'll be one giddy gal.
Happy birthday to me, I have everything I need and more right now, what could I possibly ask for?
Komentar