2003-02-15 12:06 p.m.
Today is my 27th birthday, and I woke up in a cabin in Tahoe. Actually, it isn't as much of a cabin as it is a 1970's-era mega-house mansion.
Even in the most wonderful king bed my aching body has ever felt, I slept terribly. All night I was plagued by anxious dreams. I dreamt that Andie came to me a few hours after I went to sleep and told me that our party was evicted from the house. The rental company found out that we had 18 people there, and the rental agreement we signed included a clause that we would be immediately evicted with no refund if we had more than ten people in the house.
I tossed and turned wondering what 18 displaced youths would do in the far-away land of South Lake Tahoe, $1350 poorer and without lodging. I dreaded waking up, since I knew that waking up would mean time to pack up and leave the giant cabin we had only just arrived at.
But when I awoke everything was fine. I laid awake, dazed at how upset I was in my dream and how something that seemed so real just plain wasn't.
I got dressed and glided as silently as I could through the house, sleeping friends littered the floors and couches and beds. Expecting a bitter cold, I put on my heaviest coat and went for a walk through the suburban neighborhood.
There was more life in a decrepit cemetery than the surrounding streets. No cars, no dogs barking, no playing children, no voices. It wasn't cold, which disappointed me. But the keys—mini fjords from the lake, allowing boat access to each and every backyard—remained frozen in spite of the unusually warm air. There were cat tracks in the dirty snow on the sides of the road.
I felt a little down. I always do on my birthday. I don't know why, but each February 15th is like this.
No time to write now, though. We are leaving to get some food and go grocery shopping for the weekend.
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