You know what’s my favorite month? October.
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