As of yesterday I am thirty-four.
I'm thirty-four and particularly fond of owning two second-hand pieces of furniture. One pale-blue couch and a green-and-yellow, rose-printed armchair.
I'm also fond of the new -WHITE!- Ikea chair that my dog insists on using as a bed.
There's also one mustardy-shaded round carpet for which I feel equal love and concern. Love for the integration it brings to my living room. Concern for the possibility of it becoming fertile ground for my current number one public enemy: Fleas.
At this stage in my life I'm choosing to go to bed with a book every night. I'm reading Steinbeck for the first time and falling in love with the Great American Novel for the billionth time.
The New Yorker is what I currently use as my morning read. A #NumberOne #source for #tweetable English.
I'm un-focusing most of the attention I give to my time-consuming and also rarely-questioned social media patterns. Using the unspent scrolling-time for writing a self-imposed book.
Trading the purpose of my phone to catching Pokemons and snapping sunsets.
Excusing my mostly-all-English reading list with my culturally-diverse music playlists.
Using Spotify to channel my newly found Latin American pride. Listening to Cuba, México and Colombia but also to New York and Miami también.
For my birthday I felt like planting something.
Maybe, I thought, the urge to grow roots is self-evident.
As of yesterday I am thirty-four and there is one red rose planted outside.
My birthday gift is knowing it'll blossom.
My birthday wish is to watch it as it does.
