It’s the beginning of fall, the air is crisp. Hues of orange foliage sprinkle the sidewalks, and it’s my birthday month.
Yes, an entire month, thirty-one days, dedicated to the celebration of my life! Me. Me. Me. All month. Expect to be invited to seven different events, elaborate over-priced dinners followed by bottle service at exclusive clubs, maybe you’ll even receive an invitation to Tulum or some other exotic local where we don’t interact with the poverty-ridden locals. Those sad, desperate faces really know how to ruin a good time.
Two years ago a friend texted saying, “You know, birthdays are like assholes: we all have one.”
Well I’m no longer friends with that prick!
On October 8th, a week before my birthday, I will invite all my friends to an upscale Italian eatery. This will be the first of many similar events. We will pose for selfies #EpicBirthdayMonth, take photos of the uneaten scallop special (the plating needs to look perfect in each photo, a single bite will ruin it), and then get a table at 1Oak. If you can’t get in…well that’s just too bad. It’s my birthday month! It’s not my fault the doorman thinks you’re a nerdy, ugly plebe. Would you really expect me to change my entire birthday plans for you, one person?
My lower-middle-class buddy Mark, who works as an English teacher, whined last year after we ordered six bottles of Dom Perignon at a club. “Dude, I can’t afford a $1200 tab.”
“It’s my birthday month, Mark!” I shouted incredulously. “You will pay for yourself and me – each time.”
My friends should have enough money saved to celebrate my existence. It’s not as if there is no warning. I continuously post countdowns on social media until October. On August 25th, I captioned under a pearly-white smiling selfie, accompanied by a thumb-up emoji, “Thirty-seven days till birthday month!” Two hundred people liked it. I don’t have the time to scroll through and see if Mark was one of them, but I bet he was.
Two days before my birthday, on October 13th, ten of my closest friends will receive an invitation to a spa retreat. It will cost $450/per person. I can’t have my buds stressed out. We will float in a red wine-filled bath followed by a mandatory cupping session. Hickey-like crop circles will zigzag across your back, expanded blood vessels courtesy of the birthday boy. They will remind you of me anytime you stride by a mirror shirtless. If calendar notifications, Facebook invites, and my constant texts don’t jog your memory of the glorious month I was created, at least the red scarring on your back will!
October makes me giddy. I sit straight as an arrow coming up with exciting birthday plans. Hey guys, you know what time of the year it is! I send to my group text. Tulum, massage day, multiple nights out. Any other suggestions? Mark immediately removes himself from the group. Selfish jerk
