Surprise, Surprise
On Sunday, I'm turning 26; the first year of my life closer to 30 than 20. This fact has been running through my mind quite a bit lately, usually accompanied by a long, loud scream that I think is only in my head until the cops answer my neighbor's noise complaint, break down my apartment door and find me curled in a ball under my girlfriend's computer desk. What I'm trying to say is that I don't handle birthdays particularly well. I tend to get morose and I obsess over the fact that I'm getting old, driving my friends and family crazy in the process.
You could make a pretty strong case that I'm being a total pussy about it and I'd be the first to admit that you're absolutely right, now leave me alone as I weep softly into a bottle of gin.
A major part of this whole anti-birthday attitude is that I'm usually against making too big a fuss. I don't mind the day being marked with a bit of fanfare (especially if the fanfare involves me being give cards full of cash) but I generally like to shy away from the big "to do." Too much work, too much effort, too much thinking about my birthday... meh. Just meh.
However, things on this Thursday morning are looking quite a bit different. I'm feeling... well... actually pleased that it's my birthday. I mean, I'm still totally mortified that I'm "thirty minus four," as Emily has been putting it, but that's all just so much background noise right now.
Why?
Because I got my ass surprise-partied last night. Emily, crafty lass that she is, gathered all my NYC-based friends at a bar in Midtown and then coaxed me there, claiming she was taking me to a restaurant that made "the best fried chicken in the city." Because Em knows me so well, she knows that I would blindly follow her (or anyone else, for that matter) into hell if promised a plate of delicious fried chicken at the end. Not much trickery was needed to get me in the room, that's all I'm saying.
Anyway, I was completely duped. I haven't had a surprise party since I was 15, which only served to make it all the more surprising. And this one was infinitely better because there was booze involved. There were party hats (including my shiny purple crown that proclaimed me the "Birthday Princess" in glittery script) and champagne and cake and good food and a homoerotic poem read to me by a fabulous Diva...
It was, in a word, unexpectedly perfect. Okay, that's two words. For Emily to do this for me... well, let's just say that I love her a lot and that, it appears, she loves me a lot too. Love, as a point of fact, is what's making me feel so much better (for now) about this whole turning 26 concept. There was certaintly a lot of it in that bar last night, that's for sure.
So what if I'm getting older? So what if I'm closer to 30 than to 20 now?
At the moment, 26 is looking just fine.
(I'm still reserving the right to completely throw a hissy fit on Sunday, though. Birthday boy's rights.)
You could make a pretty strong case that I'm being a total pussy about it and I'd be the first to admit that you're absolutely right, now leave me alone as I weep softly into a bottle of gin.
A major part of this whole anti-birthday attitude is that I'm usually against making too big a fuss. I don't mind the day being marked with a bit of fanfare (especially if the fanfare involves me being give cards full of cash) but I generally like to shy away from the big "to do." Too much work, too much effort, too much thinking about my birthday... meh. Just meh.
However, things on this Thursday morning are looking quite a bit different. I'm feeling... well... actually pleased that it's my birthday. I mean, I'm still totally mortified that I'm "thirty minus four," as Emily has been putting it, but that's all just so much background noise right now.
Why?
Because I got my ass surprise-partied last night. Emily, crafty lass that she is, gathered all my NYC-based friends at a bar in Midtown and then coaxed me there, claiming she was taking me to a restaurant that made "the best fried chicken in the city." Because Em knows me so well, she knows that I would blindly follow her (or anyone else, for that matter) into hell if promised a plate of delicious fried chicken at the end. Not much trickery was needed to get me in the room, that's all I'm saying.
Anyway, I was completely duped. I haven't had a surprise party since I was 15, which only served to make it all the more surprising. And this one was infinitely better because there was booze involved. There were party hats (including my shiny purple crown that proclaimed me the "Birthday Princess" in glittery script) and champagne and cake and good food and a homoerotic poem read to me by a fabulous Diva...
It was, in a word, unexpectedly perfect. Okay, that's two words. For Emily to do this for me... well, let's just say that I love her a lot and that, it appears, she loves me a lot too. Love, as a point of fact, is what's making me feel so much better (for now) about this whole turning 26 concept. There was certaintly a lot of it in that bar last night, that's for sure.
So what if I'm getting older? So what if I'm closer to 30 than to 20 now?
At the moment, 26 is looking just fine.
(I'm still reserving the right to completely throw a hissy fit on Sunday, though. Birthday boy's rights.)
posted by Clinton at 9:17 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home