29

On Wednesday, I turned 29. That means it's birthday week, and although the actual day already passed, the party train rolls ever forward. Tonight L and I are going to see "The 39 Steps" on Broadway, and then tomorrow is poker night with a bunch of friends and my brother-in-law.

So far 29 is feeling pretty good. I like the oddness of it, the irregularity, the sharpness. 29 seems to be more about anticipating 30 than reflecting the end of the 20s. And the 20s, for all of their wild freedom and unexpected mistakes and dawning awareness, are maybe starting to feel a little ragged. Not that I'm in a rush to hit 30 and then begin the slide into fatherhood, mortgages, and relaxed-fit pants. But I do feel like I am entering a new phase of life somehow, a phase where I want a bigger apartment and where I get really excited by having new ties to wear to work. Although, before I write myself completely off, I will also note that I spent 90 minutes of my birthday at hip hop, where we were bouncing around to house music and warming up to "Rump Shaker," a song that moved me as deeply and undeniably at 13 as it does now at 29.