Friday, I turn 31. I’m not in my 20s. I’m not even ‘barely 30’. I’m 31. That means, if you can do math (which I cannot), I was born in 1981.  Which really was not that long ago, in theory. I know I’m being super refletive about a pretty insignifcant age, but I needed something to write about for my birthday.  And besides, being 31 means  more than you might think. It means I remember handwriting class papers. It means I remember Saved by the Bell, Colour Me Badd and Amy from before she was on Big Bang Theory. It means I married a soldier before 9/11. It means I had a pager once.  (Try explaining the point of a pager to someone now.  It told you to call someone.  Without providing the phone.  Why?) It means my cellphone once weighed more than my purse.  Not that it could have fit in it. It means that, while barely, I can remember when all the stuff that’s in fashion now, was the first time. It means I remember what I was doing when I heard Kurt Cobain, Mother Theresa and Princess Diana died. It means I remember BEFORE the Internet.  No joke.  Before Google.  Before facebook.  Before you could lose a whole day staring at a computer without making any money. And yet still, 31 is far from old. This past week, we got the opportunity to attend a Gala.  Like an honest to goodness Gala, Black-Tie Formal with a million forks and amazing food. It was a $500 a plate fundraiser on Valentine’s day that some companies bought tables for and…