Before moving to New York City, January was just like every other month of the year – the beginning of the year, yes, but not much change in terms of weather, routine, and things to do. Since I’ve moved here, every January seems so dreary, especially after I come back from sunny Australia or more temperate San Francisco. It’s snowy, windy, freezing, and miserable. The skies are relentlessly grey, and no one wants to walk on the streets unless they are rushing from one warm, heated place to another.

January is also my birth month. In 12 days, I am turning 28 years old. Maybe it’s because of the dreary New York winters, but for the most part since I have moved here, I don’t particularly look forward to my birthday. I have felt awkward even telling people it’s my birthday or asking them to celebrate it with me. The older I get, the less attention I seem to want. And the things I’d want to wear on my birthday I usually cannot wear because it’s too cold, or I’d have to freeze in transit to getting to my final destinations. My ideal birthday would be in a sunny, hot, blue-skied place, with just a few people, and not a lot of fuss. Oh, and a cake. And Ed. Ed should be there, too.

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