birpy frickin’ hathday

It is done.


I am thirty (30). Trente. Halfway to sixty, third of the way to ninety.

The pic above is from the stroke of midnight last night at Boulder’s venerable Sundown Saloon. Also known as the "Scumdown", the "Downer" and probably a host of other cute nicknames as well (I can think of "Sunkdown" and "Spundown." What can you think of?), it is the veritable picture of a dive and thus the very best sort of place to celebrate an agonizing-ish life transition.

But you know… as I stood there, leaning against the Foosball table, chugging the penultimate swallow of my Long Island iced tea ($3 special, bay-bay!), I thought to myself… So everyone says this is the decade of self-acceptance. When it finally stops mattering quite so much what everyone thinks of you, and more what you think of yourself. Huh. I kinda like that. Maybe my little round tummy and my big round butt and my long skinny feet aren’t that bad after all. And if someone thinks they are… ahhhh, fuck ’em.

And no, I did not hook up with random fellows in some dreadful half-assed attempt at recapturing my fleeting youth. The guy I’m holding onto is my beloved cousin Geoffrey. The skinny guy on my left is my darling brother Benjamin (I have some graphic photos of the aftermath of his drinking session, but I’m not sharing). The guy on his left is his roommate Matt. Sweetie Jim took the photo, and Matt and Ben’s buddy Ryan was standing next to him out of camera’s reach. So yes, I was hanging around in a bar with five men, four of whom are unmarried, but it was utterly innocent and even a bit sweet. The only person I made goo-goo eyes at all evening, with the exception of my Dearly Beloved, was this cute little butch gal in a wifebeater and some black leather pants that I wanted dreadfully. (The pants, not the butch gal.) And that was just for the humorous effect anyway.

A final note on the Sundown: It has the most interesting funk to it. Funk in the old sense, meaning "stink." It smells most peculiarly of B.O. and cigarettes. And probably stale vomit, some of which may belong to a member of my family… or not…

Here’s to my fourth decade of life. May it bring insight, intelligence and inspiration. But not insects. Or incubi. Or inhumanity to man.

About Molly Newman

Writer, cook and trivia/spelling bee hostess, living it up in North Portland.
This entry was posted in Things That Happened. Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to birpy frickin’ hathday

  1. Wanda E. Santiago says:

    The best to you on this your special celebration! Looks like fun!! Hugs Wanda

  2. Happy Birthday Molly!! Glad you had fun…and really, you are right about the 30’s being much less pressure than the 20’s!! Enjoy yourself!!

  3. Jen says:

    See? 30’s not so bad, you can still have fun, and with the round-tummy-round-butt-skinny-feet comment I think I can say you get it now. That’s what 30+ is, the fuck ’em part.

  4. YeeHaw!! M. You did it! Sounds like a real kickass time ya’ll had…Good for you! Makes me want to celebrate my thirtieth all over again…
    That self-acceptance thing is overrated…It keeps changing. Just when you think you got yourself all neatly defined..BAM! Things change again. I spent 5 years out of 30-40ish stage with a therapist and some great antidepressants to try and figure it all out…nothin’ that a 6 pack of Corona and a great friend couldn’t figure out!
    Happy Birthday..Give ’em hell Molly!

  5. Herm says:

    Nor incontinence!
    Happy 30th, (little) big sister!

  6. Mimi says:

    Welcome to your Thirties!
    Happy birthday!

  7. Gwyn says:

    Happy Birthday, girl! It’s not bad at all–heck, I didn’t even start parenthood till the mid-30s!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s