As some of you may have gathered, it was my 29th birthday on the weekend.
I’m always compulsively excited about my birthday. I was totally indifferent to it last week, as my 29th lies directly in the shadow of what will be THE MOST AWESOME THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY EVER™. Twenty-nine indeed, who gives a shit? Even so, on Saturday I rocketed out of bed like a six year old on Christmas morning and spent the rest of the day breaking into spontaneous fits of jogging on the spot and flailing my arms, singing “it’s my BIRTHDAY TOMORROW!!” in ever increasing octaves. It frightened the hell out of everyone in DFO.
I must have been sending out some very strange energy, because for the first time in my life some guy asked for my number in the supermarket. I was in the make-up section pondering whether twenty-nine is an appropriate age to start wearing mascara, when a repeated “Hello! Hello? Hello??” filtered into my reverie. I turned around and was confronted with a terribly nervous young man. Well, either nervous or a heroin addict. He made some small talk, told me he’d seen me earlier and was so ‘fascinated’ he had to come and say hello, and said some terribly complimentary things followed by “could we possibly swap numbers?” I processed all this with my usual poise and grace, ie. this exact face:
…then stammered out that I was flattered, but I was in a long term relationship. Which I assume is less hurtful than “I’m a bitter, jaded man-hater and my immediate presumption is you’re trying to distract me with chitchat while you steal my purse to pay for your next prostitute.” That aside, I made sure to tell him I was very appreciative, stroked his arm and told him if I was single I would definitely have coffee with him. It’d be nice if more blokes had the guts to do this kind of thing, but sadly there are too many girls like me who just assume they’re on crack and shoot them down. I must apologise to my fellow single ladies, I’ve done you all a disservice.
After a hard day of shopping, I gathered up some of my favourite people and hit the pub. Nefarious Drummer Boy is currently one of my favourite people. For the moment. He brought along his dad, who straddles that fine line between adorable gentleman and creepy old perv. My favourite quote of the night was “Sorry darling, I was just looking at your tits then noticed you had a really pretty shirt.”
At some point during the evening an Amazonian redhead attached herself to our party. This girl was six foot two and built like a goddamn discus Olympic medalist. She wore fluorescent green eye shadow and a bright red dress, and I was quite intrigued by her until she started showing an interest in Drummer Boy. Then I became terrified. Now I’m no fading flower, if some bird is trying to muscle in on my piece of ass then I’ll happily put her in her place. Unless said bird could chew me up with her Cornflakes and floss with my thigh bones, in which case YOU CAN HAVE HIM, PLEASE TAKE HIM, HE’S YOURS.
Drummer Boy was less than enthused by my lily-livered capitulation and promptly went and hid.
“WHERE’S THE DRUMMER?!” boomed Terrifying Redhead.
“I…I don’t know. Getting a drink I think. Don’t hurt me.”
“DO YOU THINK I’M PRETTY?!”
“Yes…of course. You’re…statuesque. Overwhelmingly attractive. Really overwhelming.”
“WHY DOESN’T DRUMMER THINK I’M PRETTY?!”
“He..he does! He told me. Overwhelmingly attractive. You should go find him. Please don’t hurt me.”
At that point she yanked my plastic birthday tiara off my head, secured it on her own fiery mane and lumbered off to find him. Drummer Boy immediately materialized out of the shadows like a wood nymph and propelled me out the door faster than a gazelle being chased down by tyrannosaurus rex. We later found out she gave up on Drummer, and pashed on with his dad instead. And dad, bless him, even managed to retrieve my tiara. Which he only returned to me after firmly grasping my left buttock and leering down my dress.
Still better than being 28.