Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Two to the Fifth
When I was a little girl, as my mother likes to remind me, I had a love-hate relationship with birthdays. I loved getting all the presents, but I hated having people over and having to deal with them and most of all I hated not being able to win any of the party games because I was the hostess and it would be rude to do that.
Inevitably, so Mom tells me, I would end up hiding in my bedroom, and there would probably be crying.
Fast forward 25 years or so later, and I no longer balk at inviting a bunch of friends (though notice that they aren't invited over to my actual house, just to meet at a public spot). I no longer expect presents. But the crying remains. Just a little bit, this year, I swear! But it seems like something of a tradition that I just gotta keep up. (Crying rule exception: my birthday in 2007. Thank you, Spyder.)
As readers of this blog may suspect, I had been planning a trip to Disneyland for this weekend just past. It was in honor of my 32nd birthday, and honestly probably ended up being the best birthday ever. Of my 30s, at least. Call me a consumer whore if you will, but sometimes it's just worth it to sell out your soul.
Especially when it gets you a chance to do breakfast with Eeyore.
Through the Looking Glass, this is.
Just about to hop on Star Tours.
There is just something about Disneyland that makes it special. I was trying to explain it to Michelle and Tamica tonight, and Michelle had to comment that she was amazed at how my monologue about the experience had absolutely no trace of my usual sarcasm or cynicism. That's how amazing it is. (And perhaps a peek into my secret self that still, sort of, wants to grow up to be a princess. But shh! That's just between us, right?) Something about the idealization of reality, and the strict adherence to a code of conduct that is likely beaten into the park's employees, just makes it a perfect bubble. It's almost — almost — enough to give me a reason to move to Southern California so I can have access to it any time I want.
Perhaps I'm the only one who thought this was an odd juxtaposition of signage.
So yeah, I regressed to being a seven-year-old. A seven-year-old with a 30-something's income and cash flow. And credit cards.
I might have spent a lot of money. I'm not saying, and neither are my new plushie Eeyore, my R2D2 plastic drinkstein, nor my Disneyland Castle Throw.
Emily and I drove back into town late last night, and today after mooching around the apartment and then throwing her out, I got dolled up for the SF celebration at House of Prime Rib.
These people did a really great job of convincing me that they liked me. So either they are good actors ... or I'm really pulling the wool over their eyes. Thanks, everyone. You really made me feel amazingly special, even though you all are the special ones.
I love being a meat eater. Sorry, my veggie friends.
Could I have had a better birthday extravaganza? Perhaps, if, as Laura had suggested, I'd been able to get myself a 19-year-old cabana boy to take care of me for the evening. Or had won the lottery. Or something. But those are dreams. And being realistic, I couldn't have asked for anything more awesome.
Best. Birthday. Ever. With or without the crying, I still win.