And now, today, this actual day today—November the first—is my actual, true birthday. Every time I have talked about my birthday previous to this, over the past few weeks, someone has wished me a happy birthday in the comments, and I felt very guilty that I had inadvertently mislead you all and…what? Ruined everyone’s lives? I’m not sure why, exactly, guilt has kicked in, but it has, and that is because I am so old and going to die alone and really what’s the point and the world’s going to end soon anyway, so who cares? Now wish me happy birthday!
I tend to get very melancholy on my birthday, and not because I feel old or used up or washed out or in the gutter or overeasy or any of a whole bunch of other prepositional clichés. Birthdays just feel big and important and big and important things make me feel small and unimportant and then I get sad and swill gin and wonder if anyone has ever really loved me or ever will. Look, there I go again.
Today, though, I’m going to get through with a minimum of drama and self-pity (unless it is the comedic kind, oh woe! And involves a fainting couch, because cool!) and a maximum of feeling good and pampered and happy and pretty and also pretty fabulous (above: getting pretty! a photo by Melinda). On the agenda, we have a manicure and pedicure—shiny! Eyebrows, waxed; hair, cut; drinks, down my gullet. Happiness, complete. Especially if I make time, somewhere in there, to buy myself some sassy new panties and maybe a giant bottle of the lavender L’Occitane foaming bath stuff I love so much and must have because without it I will die and what’s the point?
Maybe I need to add a massage, and a facial, and a diamond pony and some sandwiches or something.