I recently found, in a bag in my hallway closet, a photo of myself on my fourth birthday. There are no two ways about it: I was an adorable four-year-old. I had it all: the cheeks, the eyes, the big afro puff. My ensemble is pretty special, too: white, floor-length dress and grey boots. Look, I wasn’t a seer, but that look is very on-brand for winter 2017.
My family birthday celebrations are subdued; the last birthday I remember my parents making a big deal of was my 15th. Since then, I have received cards and extended prayers, uttered in Yoruba and English (from my ma), and, sometimes, hard cash in an envelope. My habits as an adult have swung towards the perfunctory: I take the day off, eat some cake, laze around and return to work the next day, slightly more refreshed.
I have a birthday approaching (#ScorpioSeason), a big one, and I have no plans for it. Last year’s observance was a group brunch that rapidly devolved into an episode of Adventures in Day Drinking (the channel commissioner, ie me, cancelled it after just one season, declaring “never again”). But, this time, with the significance of a milestone year hanging over me, brunch might be a little small fry. I feel as if I’m supposed to want the Big Potato. But no parties, thanks.
The healthy compromise is straight out of the Parks And Recreation handbook: I’m going to treat myself. I’m thinking a spa day – massage, facial, pedicure, all that jazz – and then maybe a fancy drink in a fancy bar, before checking into a hotel in the city for the night, because why make my own bed? I hear 35 is quite the year.
