It’s my birthday today. Yup. I’m going to be 29 again. I’ve been turning 29 for six years now. Lots of time to get the perfect 29th birthday planned.
First, I’m going to read though the journals I kept as a teenager and laugh at my angsty teenage self. This will allow me to feel as if I’ve actually accomplished something in life, because I’m no longer worried about whether Ian likes me and if I’ll be invited to any parties that weekend.
Newsflash: Ian did like me, but not as much as he liked Sarah and no I wasn’t invited to a party that weekend because I didn’t drink.
Then I’m going to pull my hair into a ponytail, put on a graphic tee and some funky earrings and go the liquor store–yeah, I drink now that I’m an adult–and hope to get IDed.
After that I’m going to the tanning salon. What I really want is sensory deprivation tank. Those
thirty-five twenty-nine years of sensory input add up. I’m pretty much touched out and fed up with the noise. And the smells. Oh God, the smells.
So seeing as there’s no sensory deprivation tank available locally and the pool is full of houndish teenage boys whooping and splashing, I figure lying in a tanning bed, slathering on some odd-smelling but strangely relaxing tanning oil and listening to ocean noises on my headphones just might do it. I’m an optimist, can’t you tell?
Then I’m off to the tattoo parlor. ‘Cause what’s a milestone without some ink to mark it? Except now that I’m 29, I’m all adult and stuff; so the tattoo will be mature and meaningful and will not include fairies, butterflies or unicorns. This is when the trip to the liquor store will come in handy. I’m going to try to stay sober until after I pick the tattoo, though.
Then once I’m dark, shiny, tattooed and plastered I’m heading to the karaoke bar. Why? ‘Cause I’ve never done karaoke. Probably for good reason. I can’t sing. But who’s going to insult my singing on my birthday?
That’s right. Probably everyone.
Then I’ll stumble home and make passionate love to my husband while smearing ourselves with the cheesecake he specially ordered to celebrate the occasion. Not my birthday. The sex. We don’t get to do it often; we need to celebrate it.
Sounds fun, right? In actual fact I’ll probably be cleaning the house, doing a teleconference or two, making a nice supper for myself and hoping my husband picks up a cake. But a girl can dream, can’t she?
How do you celebrate your big birthdays? Tell me in the comments below for a chance to win my undying jealousy.