Tuesday is my twenty-eighth birthday.
I was going to whip up a nice long post commemorating the end of my twenty-seventh year. It would have been a chronicle of love. It would have talked about going all in, seeing things through and watching hard work pay off. It would have drawn a picture of four seasons in Central Park, helicopter rides to work and getting windblown on the northern California coast. It would have thrown in jokes about crying on New York City subways, a slew of hilarious dates and a one-toothed dog named Ferdinand. It would have told the story of new life, a wild summer and one thousand champagne cocktails.
But instead, I'll tell you about Saturday night, when we gathered around a long harvest table in a tiny uptown pub bathed in candlelight and laughter. Thanks to the storm, it was intimate. There were a few hurricane refugees and the ones who could make the trek uptown. There was flowing champagne, sparkler fires and tiny crown fascinators atop our heads. There was a bar takeover, and we played musical chairs, had a soul shakedown and convinced complete stranger friends to join us for a birthday limbo. It was perfect.
And then there were these: pumpkin cupcakes topped with vanilla buttercream, fresh figs and a gold-flecked caramel drizzle. They were shared with family, friends, random bystanders and a few of our favorite British pub boys in the world. They were divine.
When I think of what really makes a year, I am reminded that it's what we learn from the ups and downs, the experiences, the trials and those moments that we find completeness. Saturday night was a reminder that I so have what I need and more. I'm overwhelmed at what twenty-seven brought. It was everything I could have never even dreamed of, and one hell of a trip around the sun. I can't wait to see how my new year unfolds.