I heard that on "Deadwood," though I'm sure it came from somewhere else. And I think it goes double on your birthday.
For a week now I've been publicly (foolishly) talking up my 30th birthday outing. "Booze and bad behavior," I promised my friends. "For one night only, I'm going to party like it's 1996."
Well, tonight I celebrated. I drank too much and ate too much and traipsed around town in a plastic gold tiara and stilleto heels. I flirted with younger men. Most of them thought I was 23. It was a good night. It was...fine.
But tonight was also a turning point. One of those moments when you look up and realize how far you've drifted from wherever you were the last time you took stock of your life. My friends have gotten older, gotten married, had kids. Tonight the people I've known longest, the ones I never get to see, did not celebrate with me. Not even those who said they were coming. One had to go to a funeral. Another has a sick relative. Someone's kid wouldn't go to sleep before 10. Someone else was too fucking lazy. I'm in no position to complain; I've skipped my fair share of bashes and get-togethers for plenty of lame reasons. It's hard to drag yourself out on a rainy night, especially heading downtown from the 'burbs.
Ironically, the girls who spend every day with me were the ones who showed up to spend the evening. They are such stellar people. Maybe it's just the booze talking, but I love those chicks.
AND YET -- since this blog is an honest space -- I have to admit that underneath all the stumbling, flirting and fun I felt quite sad and kind of lonely. It was sort of like falling asleep on the bus and waking up hours later, next to a kind stranger, in another part of town that feels far from home. And then remembering that stranger is your neighbor and that strange place is where you live now. That may not be the best analogy, but I'm drunk and it's the best you're gonna get from me right now.