So we’re on our way to Chez Panisse the other night, on my birthday. Lala asks me how old I am. This is not an idle question — neither of us can ever remember how old the other one is. I say that I am now 33! Yay! 3 times 11, which is my favorite number. Wooot! What a great year it’s going to be!
I’d already said that to LOTS of people in the last few days, co-workers and such.
Suddenly, it feels very familiar.
Let’s look back at my blog post from last year, shall we? On July 5, 2005, I wrote, "Thanks for reading. Y’all are a great part of my birthday, too. Thirty-three! That’s three times my favorite number! Woooot!"
So I say to Lala, with growing concern, "What year is it?"
We think for a while.
"It’s 2006, I think."
"Okay," I said. "I was born in 1972."
We move our fingers and count under our breath.
"Shit. I’m 34."
Lala starts laughing.
"I’m THIRTY-FOUR. I lost a whole damn YEAR! I’ve been 32 for TWO YEARS!"
I was pissed. And amused, yes. But so irritated. Apparently I knew how old I was for one day last year, and then forgot all about the fact that I’d had a birthday. I would have sworn to my mother (who would have had to think hard about the math, too) that I was turning 33 on Wednesday.
So, what you’re waiting for: Chez Panisse was perfection. I had the best beef I’ve ever had in my life. And a baked goat cheese salad. And a ginger something dessert that went SO well with the port. The ambiance was perfect, the waitress excellent and understated, and my escort was HOT. What more can I girl ask for?
Also, this just in: My boss at work just gave me a bag of fleece, unwashed, raw Jacob wool from his sheep named Ulysses. I’m gonna have to learn how start from (almost) scratch.
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