Birthdays have always made my Only Child Syndrome kick into overdrive. I tend to announce it way before it actually happens (which you already know), demand greetings and act like the all the good things that happen in the world are some sort of tribute to my being born with immunity from being called narcissistic. Birthday card = the best.

Not much has changed over the years. I still sort of demanded greetings (that you indulged. Thank you.) And maybe I did, for a very brief moment, think that the sun shone just for me. ‘Til it rained. Still, birthdays have always remained special.

This year’s was spent with loved ones in Antonio’s Tagaytay eating my heart out and, consequently, ¬†bringing my garterized waistband to its very limit. Their steak is always worth the trip. Spent the day in this gorgeous ForMe dress and found a way to deploy it in about every section of the place with camera snaps to show for.

People usually ask how it feels to be the age you just turned into. 23 is such an interesting number though. Apparently nobody has anything to say about it – no store wants to be Forever 23, no song goes “I am 22 going on 23, baby it’s time to think.” This might just be the beginning of my youth’s decline. First it’s 23. Then 25. Then 30. Next thing you know I have my own senior citizen’s card. It’s a slippery slope. Luckily, I’ve been told I look young and I plan to abuse that. A lot. It’s decided then. 23 is the start of me denying how old I really am. Kidding.

On a serious note, I am very grateful for the wonderful years I’ve had. I’ve been realizing these past few days that I have amassed such a treasure trove of loved ones and friends and have been so blessed in more ways than I can ever recount. Thank you for making my heart happy. (This is the part where you imagine me placing both hands on my heart – because that is exactly the type of person I am and the kind of thing I would do.) Thank you. BU post (and perhaps an even longer thank you) to follow.

Meanwhile, to avoid resorting to age-denial, Taylor Swift better start writing songs about being 23. uh uh.

Dress, FORME