For some reason, I feel I don’t have any time to write. I’m already two days into my 34th year, and I feel a little bit of anxiety.
On my birthday, I went for a run. 30 minutes, hills, then I came home and stretched and did squats and lunges.
On my birthday, my friend Becky took me to dinner. She had a cold, yet she still walked around Greenwich Village. We ate at a cute little place called The New French, then tried to find a dessert place that seemed to move from the location I remembered six years ago, but ended up at Rocco’s. Sarah, I know you remember Rocco’s. On Bleecker.
Before we stepped into dessert, Becky requested an acappella quartet singing on the street to serenade me with a sweet rendition of “Happy Birthday.” The quartet’s name was Spank. Um, I would hyperlink that band name, but I’m afraid to Google it. But I will say the group sounded fantastic and Becky was very quick on her feet to get them to sing to me.
I had a chocolate cream pie as my birthday cake. If I do say so myself, 33 looks pretty good on me so far:
Then we hung out at Becky’s place and listened to music while she cleaned her apartment and then we fell asleep while a DVD was playing.
The day was gorgeous, and I was so grateful to spend it with one of my best friends in the whole wide world.
I think my next post is going to have to be about cookies. I may have to come up with a new favorite food, people.