At the start of next week, I will be celebrating surviving another year of my life. It may not sounds like that great of an achievement to you, but when one is as unlucky as me, you learn to be appreciative of this kinda shizz. I mean, I fell ass-over-tit on the street three times yesterday, in an admittedly spectacular display of perambulation failure.
The thing is, I'm kind of freaking out about this particular birthday. It's my 23rd celebration of this nature. I have very mixed feelings about this number. It just seems such an awkward one. It's like the sloppy-kiss-from-an-elderly-insane-aunt of ages. Nothing in your power can stop it from coming, but it just makes you feel a little bit pukey.
Anyway, with all this resting uneasily in my subconscious, and increasingly, in my conscious too, I somehow ended up on a double date last night. A double date with a guy I'd never clapped eyes on before. A guy who turned out to be about 18 and fresh out of the Ed Hardy Academy for Douchebaggery. *le sigh*.
In case you're wondering how this unfortunate scenario came about, my friend Laura had met this "really cool guy" during the World Cup, but he'd been away and they hadn't had a chance to meet up since. She casually threw in that he did have a "baby face" during our pre-date gallon of wine consumption (in preparation for the inevitable awkwardness and bad jokes). She clearly hadn't noticed in her World Cup beer-addled state that the kid finished primary school about 20 minutes ago, and I probably have more of a 'tache than he will for at least the next 10 years.
And my fancy man wasn't much better either. For starters, he was wearing a white and red Ed Hardy diamante studded belt. Now call me small minded, but I really don't think there's ever an appropriate social situation for a man to don diamante. Unless he's participating in Strictly Come Dancing or some such, in which case I don't think we'd be on a date in the first place, let's be honest. This creation was eye meltingly ugly. Strike One.
Be assured, however, the Little Belt of Horrors was nothing compared to the "fun" carding situation outside the bar, when our two Romeos had more than a little trouble proving they were of the legal age. It is not right that I felt like some kind of sugar momma at 22 years of age. When we finally got in, my beau demanded to see my ID, as part of the ritual "Who are you supposed to be?" conversation. This conversation is highly amusing when you are 16 and sneaking into nightclubs, to get trollied on two blue WKDs and spend the rest of the night having your best friend hold your hair back while you wail about how Gary who works in Spar (Gary being the pinnacle of romantic attainment because he has an electric blue Seat Ibiza with tinted windows) ignored you all night. It starts to wear itself out a little by the "ripe" old age of 22, however.
My man was disgusted. "Wow, you're old", he pronounced, feeling no need to sugar coat his horror at my geriatric state. I believed this was as bad as it could get. I was wrong. More wrong than Snooki heading up the UN, or Tom Cruise in general. I spent the rest of the night answering questions about post-college choices (choices they'll be making in 5 years, perhaps) and grinning along to jokes about my impending Alzheimers. Again, I'M 22 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. This merriment continued until our two buckos had to head home at 1.30, because they were "wrecked from partying all weekend" (Read: Before Mom gets pissed). Just what I need to get Birthday Week* off to a good start. Must shuffle off now, time for a cup of Horlicks before my afternoon nap.
* Although I'm not entirely comfortable with acquisition of my twenty-third year, the attention whore in me prevents any chance of letting it pass quietly. Awkward age or not, you can be damn sure every man, woman, cat and dog in the city will know about the glorious day of my birth.
