The running of the bull and a quarter century

My great aunt asked why so many people took pictures posing with the bull’s backside, where the testicles are just as detailed as the face. I shrugged, when I was secretly resisting the urge to take a photo of the balls myself. The answer to my aunt’s question is that deep down, everyone is a twelve-year-old boy.

When I turned twelve, I decided to have a retro party. My mom stapled hideous fabric up in the striped room. I wore Bailey’s tye-dyed tee shirt that was three sizes too big for either of us. My friends showed up in polyester and we ate red vines out of a tub from Costco. I turn 25 tomorrow. I’m not going to say that I’m old, because in the grand scheme of everything I’m quite young. But I do feel weird and anxious; it’s a substantial chunk of time. Mackenzie asked me if I knew what I wanted. I had no answer because I never know what I want for my birthday or Christmas anymore. My parents got me a new camera, which turned out to be exactly what I wanted. It has “food” and “museum” modes. So far, food mode just gives things a yellow tint.

Right now, I’m trying to finish up a batch of quizzes for work, so I can actually relax and have fun tomorrow. Bailey gets here on Saturday, and while there are many reason I wish she were here now, I really wish she were here to help me with fake answers about the plant books I have right now. I can think of tons of things that salamanders don’t do, but my knowledge base of plants has dwindled since my days of teaching at Outdoor School. I meant to finish the quizzes this weekend. Instead, I finished my taxes on Saturday afternoon and starting vomiting for the next twelve hours. Today, I made an attempt to eat something besides English muffins and Gatorade. So far, it’s working. But having no appetite makes picking a restaurant to go for your birthday dinner rather difficult. (I’m also really distracted by my extreme desire to go buy a pair of pants that aren’t falling apart or off of me. Maybe jeans are something I should buy more than once every year and a half).

Tonight, I’ll wear my gold boots. Tomorrow night, most likely my gold flapper dress. Next week, I’m going to buy safety goggles to make people wear at the joint birthday party.

Here’s a list of how I spent the last milestone birthdays:
16–Great Grandpa Britton’s memorial service.
18–running around Portland to places like the smutty comic book store, a headshop, to buy lottery tickets…and didn’t get carded at all.
21–We Vs. the Shark played Ithaca. My friends and I bonded with them over bottles of cheap champange.