Yesterday, I had lived 10 227 days. Some bad days, some normal days, some unbearable days, some magnificent days. Luckily, the latter kind of days usually sticks to my memory. When you have lived 10 227 days, you turn 28. I had mixed feelings about that milestone: on one hand, I am always glad to get to the next number, on the other it means I am – in event manager terms – very close to planning my 30th birthday. (Mark your calendars now: Feb 17, 2018 there will be a party!) The best part of yesterday might have been the fact that I finally escape having to pronounce “27” in Swedish. My PBI (postal birthday card index) had dropped again, though, and my closest people were very far from me. No ideal prerequisites for a cradle celebration, as we Germans also call a birthday.
But of course there was also fun in this 15th of February: My mom send me a touching e-card that started with an ad for “finding a husband for free” (she claims she could not influence the content of the ad), Ingrid sent me photos of Princess Estelle, my younger brother by choice wrote me a handwritten letter from Africa (!), my friends gave me gifts I immediately put in use (classical (and very good) Swedish short stories in booklet format and pretty earrings), my co-workers sang for me, and I finally put up the patron for the organisation I work for in a gold frame behind my desk. (It’s the Crown Princess, of course.) (I also got lots of texts and Facebook posts, thank you.)
And on Saturday, I’ll have a full house. Because I believe you should always celebrate being alive, I invited people for wine and finger food at my new place. I sent the invitation also to far-away friends out of courtesy. I mean, who would come all the way from Southern Germany or Belgium for a less significant birthday as 28 is? Turns out my friends do – and how awesome is that?