There’s this thing I like to call, “The Birthday Cycle of Shame.”
It happens every year and it all starts around November, three months before my glorious day of birth (I’ve been petitioning for years to have it named a national holiday, but those government schmos just don’t seem to get the importance). The impending gluttonous glory of Thanksgiving inevitably gets me thinking something along the lines of, “FOOOOOOOOD! HOLIDAY ALL ABOUT FOOOOOOOOD!” and because I am the kind of person who takes the phrase “consumption overkill” (which I’m pretty sure is something I just made up – spread the word, guys!) to a whole new level, the genius of such a holiday will get me thinking about the next day-long – and sometimes weekend-long – excuse I have to eat my entire weight in fried stuff, cheesy stuff, and chocolate (Jayne’s Three Basic Food Groups for Optimal Survival in the Modern World): My birthday.
“I WILL HAVE A TEN LAYER CHOCOLATE CAKE!” I’ll think wildly, grinning like a fool with gluttonous glee. “AND THERE WILL BE A MAC N CHEESE FOUNTAIN!” And then, after months of texting T all kinds of increasingly fanatical ideas like this, I’ll finally hit my birthday month. And that’s when this feeling of impending doom starts.
“WHO’S THE FUCKER WHO WILL FUCK THIS BIRTHDAY UP THIS YEAR?!” I’ll wonder, glaring at no one and preparing all my motor functions for a fit of rage. Because while I am the kind of person vain enough to believe that my birthday is the one day of the year when the whole world is allowed to stop especially for me, I am also the kind of person who’s self-deprecating enough to know that the world has taken quite a liking to fucking with me sometimes, and I dread even the remotest possibility of a repeat disappointment – and I have had many, many a disappointing birthday in my time.
Fortunately, ever since T and I began our committed booship, my birthdays have been getting exponentially more awesome with each passing year. Last week, we celebrated my 2-th (listen, sonny, you can’t just go around asking a broad my age how old she is – it’s rude!) at her place with a Harry Potter marathon (or “Potterthon” in our boo-lingo) accompanied by a king-sized KFC feast consisting of fried chicken, mac n cheese, mashed potatoes, biscuits, chicken nuggets, chicken sandwiches (called Chicken Littles for those in the know), and even the drink of my chubby youth: root beer.
The best part about celebrating my birthdays with T – apart from her company, obviously – is knowing that no matter what she decides to organize for me, it’s going to be something classically and fittingly me. Because not only does she know me so well it’s almost eerie (she didn’t even know that root beer was the drink of my youth – and yet there it was in her fridge, just randomly chilling and being all like, “Hey, Jayne, T thought you might want to have us around just in case” – what up!), but she also has this genuine desire to make my birthday a good time, and to make me feel special. And that, kids, is when you know your best boo is a keeper.
She even got me a cake!
And, yes, that does say, “Happy Birthday, Boo,” and hell yes, it does mean she covered all three of my basic food groups.
Now, it’s still months away till the Cycle of Shame begins again, but even when it does, I’ll know my day is in good hands! MY BOO RULES!