Yup, it's true: I turned thirty since we last got together around here. No big deal. I don't feel any different. Yes, I may look older thanks to the fluffy bathrobe my parents gave me for the occasion, but it's not like I've accessorized it with a burled walnut pipe, a pair of reading glasses, and a Costco-sized bottle of Levitra. Yet. Give me a couple more years on that. And get the hell off my lawn.
I had a nice quiet birthday, though, just me and some of the people I love and some 2,000-year-old Chinese warriors, the latter of which were absolutely no help when it came to eating the cake. Come to think of it, Courtney wasn't either; crazy woman doesn't like carrot cake.
My parents took us to the High Museum of Art in Atlanta to see the terra cotta warriors exhibit, which I thought was completely lame. They had a few of the actual warriors there, but the exhibit was otherwise just reproductions and text; in other words, I could have stayed home and read the Wikipedia entry and gotten the same effect. If I'm ever in China, I'd love to see them in situ, but as an art museum piece, it was pretty uninspiring.
Luckily, the High also had the third and final installment of the Louvre series, which was fantastic, so that saved the trip for me.
Wanting to kill some time before dinner, we then went to see an uplifting movie about a frequently naked pedophile Nazi war criminal, a theme that should probably be introduced into all birthday celebrations, I think. So gleeful.
Chase the happy thoughts with a bottle of red and some top-notch Italian and you've successfully kicked off a fourth decade.
Now where did I leave my slippers?