Pope Benedict Arrives in NYC

Just in time for shortening of skirts and plunging of necklines the Pope has arrived in New York for the weekend. The city is an oasis for Catholics – the Pope is in town and the Jews are at home for Passover. Coincidence?

(For the record if I have any paranoid friends – the title is a reference to The Producers – not to any glorification of Adolph Hitler – although it is his birthday this Sunday, along with my nephew who turns one).

So because I can never be in the same place as the Pope, lest our combined holiness overpower a city I am headed down to DC for the weekend. As mentioned, it is my nephew’s first birthday, one I am sure he will never forget.

I on the other hand am very likely to forget my birthday on April 24th. I turn 29. What a useless age. 29 is the new 19. Nothing changes except you sound a little less exciting at 29 than at 28. You sound more like an attorney at 29 than at 28. 29 sounds like you are scared of turning 30. 28 sounds like 30 is so far away. 28 sounds like wow you are on television. 29 sounds like when are you going to give that up already.

If anyone wants to join me for my 29th birthday I will be doing shots of mineral water while reviewing documents for a long time in a conference room and then going home to a home of boxed up possessions. Like I said it will be one to remember.

There are actually only a few birthdays I can remember for any reason – 28th, 26th, 25th, 21st and 7th. The rest I have no real recollection (other than vague parties, including one where my Dad scolded a friend of mine for burping). As happy as I was on some of those birthdays, the most memorable is definitely the one where after going to Barnes and Noble to buy some Beverly Clearly and Roald Dahl books I got on a NYC Subway train without my Mom and brother and got lost in the labyrinth that is the subway system, only to be found by a police officer some time later and returned to my weeping and terrified mother who thought she had lost me for good. I am not sure what was more humiliating, the fact that everyone was staring at me as I was crying on the train, or the fact that I was a 28 year old reading Roald Dahl books.