July 15th, yesterday, was my half birthday. Famously, January, its calendared counterweight, is the worst time of year to celebrate a birthday: everyone’s broke, exhausted, and newly sworn in to their latest attempt at recuperative sobriety. You can see why it’s common advice for January babies to instead fully celebrate their birthdays on the half-year.

While I haven’t done it yet (and by that I mean–fulfilled my wistful childhood dream of throwing a giant pool party), I typically reflect on this day every year.

I reasoned, this year, that there are 6 months until my 33rd birthday, and 6 months is plenty of time to prepare. This time, I’m not asking for folks to break their dry streak and trudge through the fickle January sleet to meet me for overpriced double dirty martinis (although that’s what I’ll be doing). Instead, these gifts are all acceptable:

+ at least 5 acres of nice land in Michigan 

+ at least 5 days of beach vacation

+ at least $20,000

+ to pop the champagne I have chilling in the fridge, on The Day

+ confetti cake 

+ to make more art

+ the solarpunk revolution 

+ my Italian citizenship 

+ fine jewelry

+ sincere and surprising compliments from everyone I have ever met 

+ studio space

+ at least one more library card

+ the feeling of freedom sweeping through me like wind in my hair

+ well-paid and fulfilling international professional offers & acceptances

+ ease

+ educational advancement & eternal curiosity

+ poetry written in my honor

+ greater community connection

That’s all I could think of, for now. I think all of these are perfectly reasonable ways to commemorate year 33, especially combined.

Thanks in advance! 💕