7:25 p.m. - 2005-06-21
If I'm Not Careful, I'm Gonna Get Old.

I turned 31, in part of a continuing plan to age disgracefully. 

The announcement--of my age, not the plan--unnerved my aquatic supervisor, who thought I was much younger because I'm sneaky and wear moisturizer with SPF.  (I was pathetically pleased).

It was really quite the nicest birthday I'd had in some time.  I got myself up like a WWII cinema ingenue and met ten enterprising good friends at a sweltering Moroccan restaurant for avocado milkshakes, delicious chicken pastries and lamb with couscous, and we enjoyed the work of a lovely bellydancer who'd received a tip-off from the waiter and bade me get up and do neck slides, shoulder shimmies, Persian arms and hip drops.  At one point she convinced me to join me in a vigorous hip shimmy and then--when I wasn't looking--she stopped and pointed at my shimmy as if to say "take it away, sister!"  I was caught off-guard by my solo.

She was beautiful, outgoing,confident--but not a terribly complex dancer and I was quite surprised to realize that I'm actually within sight of performance quality by--at least--these standards, with the addition of only a new costume and a set routine.

It was a very strange change in perception.

My friends spoiled me at dinner with a gift card, Japanese tea cups, some girly potions and unguents and Upright Citizen's Brigade on DVD, and then we drove out to the clubs and Alex paid my way in and Lisa bought me a drink...and then a nice acquaintance bought me a dirty martini, and then Alex bought me another, and then the bartender--who apparently eavesdrops when he catches wind of a birthday--comped me an enormous Vanilla-Stoli Coke.  I didn't spend a dime all night, except to tip the doorgirl and the cute bartender.  I'm not sure if I've ever been so babied.  I felt like a movie star.

I danced...a lot.  The DJ played my request and I swished around pretending that I know how to salsa. I probably don't, but I can't swear to this in a court of law. 

And somehow three sirens and I crammed into one side of a booth and dished the dirt about my casual nemesis, Divorced Man (and his Pull-My-String Pity-Me action).  I was the only one among them who'd narrowly escaped sleeping with him, and I felt very out of the loop.  Also, grateful.

As it turns out, approaching girls who are sad/crying/recently broken up (or all three) is D-Man's trademark.   However, much to my amusement, this bit of cleverness is soon undone by his tendency to "just lie there" in bed. My sweet lord.

"I believe this...is his signature move," said Kit.  She folded one arm behind her head, then held the other dramatically aloft for just a moment, like Rita Hayworth in Gilda... before dropping it back lazily to match the other and leaning back like an old man on a porch. I'd been waiting like a dog for a treat, expecting something--anything--more interesting, and oh, I laughed...

Kiss-&-tell is not very nice unless there's an asshat involved. Then, it's virtually a public service.

Somehow, I evaded true drunkenness.  (I hid round a corner). Yes, I may have told a person or two that I loved them, but I 1) actually knew them, & 2) actually meant it.  God's honest truth.  And I escaped without a hangover.  An auspicious start to the year.

The next day Alex gave me books and CDs and a big packet of vintagey perfume labels I couldn't justify on my own, and we had delicious Chinese food and a fine, reckless wine that didn't go with it.

Good birthday.

previous - next