I woke up Sunday morning feeling like my stomach was throwing up into itself, over and over again. Maybe I should have gone into the bathroom of our straight-out-of-Portlandia vacation rental and induced vomiting. But instead, I just lay in the cozy master bedroom of our temporary Northeast Portland cottage, staring at the wall of art books the owner had left, telling myself, “You’re fucking 30. You don’t throw up from drinking anymore.” I was in the final throes of a long weekend of eating, Portlanding, and blackout drinking, and instead of calling taking it easy, spending the day in bed, I officially started my day with a breakfast of fried-pastrami-and-eggs poutine washed down with a shot Bulleitt Rye and pickle back. Even though I didn’t officially hit 30 until this morning, that shot was the cherry on top of a serious rite of passage.
Last weekend, I invited a bunch of my closest friends to join me to celebrate my 30th in Portland, Oregon, a city that feels like home, even though I grew up 2 hours south. Most of them didn’t come. But then again, many did and they helped me turn my birthday party into the kind of indulgent, excessive celebration of my time on this planet that you don’t usually get as an adult. A big problem with writing autobiographical blog posts is it leads to self-mythologizing. I realize sometimes YR AN ADULT features posts that occasionally come off as arrogant and pompous and I take responsibility for that. But at the same time, if I successfully do something which I think is actually of value to other fellow new adults, then I want to recount it, for the benefit of you dear reader. That’s why I humbly present to you a few lessons on how to have the 30th birthday party you deserve, based on how I did it. Also, it’s my birthday today, so I can blog about what I fucking want.