The Lion

Okay, okay already. I’m back. It’s just summer, you know? And I’m working full time and writing a thesis. And swimming in the lake by my house a lot. And S and I are on our third family visit in the past month. Woah, Nellie.

My 31st birthday is on Monday. You know how some people don’t really do birthdays—maybe go out for dinner or something, or just exchange a simple gift or two. Others loathe birthdays and feel grumpy about getting old and freak out about how the haven’t done what they’ve wanted or generally get depressed about how long its been since they’ve been carded for a drink (or how long it’s been since they’ve been out for a drink)? Yeah, that’s not me. That’s a bunch of crap.

I love birthdays. Maybe it’s the Leo in me. Maybe it’s that fact that I have a low tolerance for misery, and therefore have the drive (and fortune) to have lived a life that’s included lots that I’ve wanted out of it. Maybe it’s the parties, or the fact that turning a year older only means I’m in a better position than ever to make what I want out of my life happen. As for the other stuff - crow's feet? - pish! Who cares!?

Leos are stereotypically known for enjoying attention, having fabulous hair and enjoying parties thrown in their honor. Yes, that’s all fine with me. Every person deserves these honors, I think, and I’ll gladly shove any friend into the spotlight to celebrate their birth, existence, their lovely lives.

I usually drag my celebrations out for a week at least. There’s the Actual Day fun stuff:
There shall be no working on the birthday. No, no indeed. Birthdays are for sleeping in, sex, cupcakes for breakfast, the spa, soap operas, swimming, toenail painting, wine with lunch, a phone call to my momma (she’s the one who did the hard work, after all) and dressing up fancy for a night at a cool restaurant that costs too much and has really fantastic Triple Chocolate Desserts of Death.

Then there’s the “weekend evening near the actual day” where one gathers one’s friends for a big social event of some kind. There shall be no stressful planning for this on the birthday-girl’s part—just the giving of the guest list and the showing up looking cute.

And then there are the ongoing random events for friends who couldn’t make it to either of those events—for example, I’m going to dinner and drinks with my friend Liza at some point because she can’t come to the party.

If that sounds a little self-indulgent, that’s because it is. It’s supposed to be. Everybody gets one. If they don’t use it, well, that’s just foolish. Why people don’t take advantage of the natural excuse for a day like this—a birthday—is beyond me.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my tiara’s in a box around here somewhere…