Happy birthday to me

Here: just got home from meeting girlfriends for drinks downtown.

Very suburban girlfriends.

Girlfriends who loudly commented – while crossing the street alongside a drag queen – that it wasn’t very nice for another girl to make fun of them for never leaving suburbia. And girlfriends who felt the need to then pull each other aside and say, “That was a drag queen, right? Did everybody see that? We are SO downtown!”

This, after a night hearing about babies and American Girl dolls and lactating.

I pretty much want to die.

Ok, not really. But I’m conflicted. And rather depressed that this was literally the best that I could do on my birthday. But then, I think about how my birthday was, for six years, the annual day when I actually got up the hope that I’d get an engagement ring. The day when I would have to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and give myself a pep talk after I received whatever crappy gift He Who Shall Not Be Named picked up on the way home.

Dear Birthday,
You generally suck. Sure, we’ve had some good times, but lately, not so much. How can we remedy this? Do you need counseling? Or a makeover? I will gladly cover your co-pay or meet you at Sephora. Whatever it takes, baby. We’ve got to get you out of this funk.

Cha Cha

P.S. I understand that you are also Tori Spelling’s birthday, and that of Studs Terkel as well. Are they being too high maintenance? Or do they give you something that I can’t, like media coverage? Tell me how I can make this relationship sizzle, baby. We can make it – you an’ me!

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