Before you read any of the following, please bear in mind that the girl behind these lines, a year older, but non necessarily any wiser, is currently on the third day of a recovery from a state of sheer drunkenness, shamelessly inflicted upon self at party venue, thus not to be held responsible in any way for the reactions aforementioned lines may cause to the public opinion.
Firstly let me daresay that birthdays are largely overrated these days. Although I confess to heart swelling with smugness when flowers arrive in my office – albeit so far in fantasies – I also think that eating cake until you die, tearing wrapping paper with your teeth and nails and having your photograph taken when doing so, with whole shebang of friends in toe sighing or wowing behind, well, in a word, stinks.
I may be a very confused person, but also very practical according to the Buddhist guy in front of the shopping centre, who saw me sporting a pair of trainers instead of towering above him on Manolos (this is a different matter, which I will happily discuss upon request with other equally vertically challenged females in London) and thought me to be an incredibly organised, down to earth personality willing to spare him a dime in donation. Needless to say he never got it, but was left more than bewildered and ready to give me the cash after 4:39 mins of my ranting (I had a digital watch on, before you smirk).
With this in mind, the first doubts I had about my own self on the occasion of yet another year gone by, presented themselves when I was incapable to put on a nice face and smile when I opened the gifts. I have been told a number of times that I am difficult to shop for (my mom has long ago thrown in the towel and resorts to either handing me the cheque or providing reading material, which I never refuse). So far, I regard myself as pretty straightforward. I even help people by giving hints months before or leaving magazines open with big circles around the items I envisage.
I never imagined how hurt one can become when people insist of giving what they would like to receive or what they think might look good on you. Out of their own image of you, it emerges you’re either:
a) attracted to blue;
b) attracted to things you’re not likely to sport because too fragile;
c) likely to wear something that curls up in knots in 5 seconds and takes 5 hours to detangle.
Why? Why does it ache so much when the people close to us fail to observe our tastes and likes whereas you always give them the perfect wanted presents because you jot down ideas throughout the year? Why do they think that spending a sum can compensate for the irritation of not being able to actually wear your present? (This comes from a person whose pangs of guilt made her hide her own new jeans from herself at the back of the wardrobe).Go figure!
On the same note, it’s worthwhile to point out haircuts cost twice as much for ladies whereas pay equality is still a big topic to be debated and discussed and fail to come closer to an end in our lifetime.
Please excuse me, I need to go back to my corner and moan. I am sure that the threatened ‘no gifts from now on’ policy will make me happier in the long run. And they say 27 is a nice number!
The grumpy old woman
(Then again, diamonds are forever).
You mention nothing of the tune so I guess that's okay. Plus it was free so no money spent, not even that much time since it had been on my mind already.
It's a nice story, I still don't understand, after all these years, why it's such a habit to drink yourself to oblivion as a mark of "coming of age". I'm a fake myself while writing it, since I do it too occasionaly.
Am taunted by insomnia.
Old? no. You can never be old.
Suddenly tired.
T.