Twenty-eight plus :45
Forty-five minutes ago, I turned twenty-eight.
I celebrated with people who just one month ago, I’d not yet met. My new colleagues. Maybe even at some point, my new friends. Who knows.
We met at eight-thirty at some Italian restaurant in what would in most cities constitute an ugly, unlivable courtyard…but here in Stuttgart gets to call itself a hot locale. We toasted a lot of things. The beginning of rehearsals, collaboration, Stuttgart itself. Then at midnight, we toasted me.
My colleagues gave me plants for my birthday. One pot full of cactus-like creatures, and another tiny pot sporting an odd creation featuring leaves that are red at the bud, then turning green as they grow out.
I though it was sweet. How were they to know that I can use plants just about as much as Nelson Mandela could use a job harvesting cotton on Orrin Hatch’s plantation.
It was nice. Officially, I can’t complain.
When I turned twenty-seven, I had everything figured out. I knew my work in the opera was taking me forward, I knew where I’d be living and when, who I’d be spending my time with—I knew who I was and who I was becoming.
Twenty-eight looks like a question left blank on a DMV form. Perhaps even intentionally so.
Maybe we should toast that fact.
