Thirty

The following conversation between John and I on the day before my thirtieth birthday practically defines the phrase “luxury problems.”  It went something like this:

John:  What do you want to do for your birthday?

Me:  I don’t know.

John:  What if we went to Greece for your birthday?

Me:  We’re going to Greece anyway, whether it was my birthday or not.

John:  Umm…we could go on a boat tour of Istanbul and call that your birthday celebration?

Me:  We’re going to do that anyway, too.

John:  Well, I guess your birthday is just going to suck this year because your life is already too awesome.

Yup, ridiculous.  This is the kind of problem I don’t mind having.

After much discussion, I decided that we should ring in my third decade with champagne and cheesecake, simply because we never have them and it might make the occasion feel special.  However, trying to find either of those items in Istanbul turned out to be more of a challenge than I anticipated.  Not wanting to spend the evening hunting down two things that I had chosen on a whim anyhow, I opted to go local.  We had a delicious dinner at a Turkish restaurant nearby, and then with a half bottle of Turkish red wine and two pieces of Baklava in hand, John and I climbed the stairs of our hotel and sat on the rooftop to enjoy dessert with a view.  It largely resembled a night spent on the rooftop just a few days earlier, but I didn’t care.  Who needs ‘special’ when every day looks like this?  (Besides, it sure beat the pants off the way I celebrated twenty nine.)

I could write an essay here about how amazing my 29th year was, but I think we all know it’s been incredible.  No need to rehash the obvious.

To catch our flight to Crete the next day we had to wake up at 2:30am, so there was no late night birthday partying, which was just fine with me.  After the sun set at 9pm, we headed straight to bed, like the responsible thirtysomethings we are.

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