Twenty-seven went out with a bang. As the manager of Russian Samovar said, closing the bar on my Saturday night birthday party, “your friends, they drink like little horses.”

Which is true. But I fit right in, having drank like a horse this weekend myself, Thursday through Monday, evenings and afternoons.

Five straight days of dubious sobriety. After which, I woke up this morning, the second day of being twenty-eight, made it out the door largely because Jess literally dragged me behind her, and got on the subway thinking:

No, seriously, I’m really getting too old for this.