Birthdays blow more than the candles on the cake, if you’re even lucky enough to still be getting one. After two horrible experiences, I realized that when it comes to ruined birthdays, boyfriends take the cake.
My birthdays all seem to have one common, incredibly annoying underlying feature: It’s never actually about what I want. Excuse my inner Birthday Bitch, but isn’t this day supposed to be about ME? Isn’t this the one day of the year where I get a free pass to be incredibly ridiculous and demanding if I want to? Why must the universe rob me of my one guilt-free, queen-bee, bitch-on-the-loose day?! I have yet to find an acceptable answer. So clearly, I never get my hopes up for my birthday.
However, if there’s one foolproof way to let a person single-handedly ruin your birthday, have a boyfriend. I know what you’re thinking. “This chick is crazy.”
Two years. Two birthdays. After I spill, you might reconsider that thought.
Year One:
It started out with Birthday Botcher taking us to a Mexican restaurant. I hate Mexican food – spicy food gives me heartburn for a week. I choked down my food without complaint, while pretending to be elated that he chose a restaurant I’d never step foot in blackout drunk. Post-dinner involved me, sitting in a garage with a massive headache and a gut full of fire, watching my then boyfriend play Frisbee and basketball with his guy friends, so I’m obviously just having a ball. Amidst contemplating my best escape strategy, my pounding head was unkindly greeted by a rogue Frisbee. The patience I don’t possess was gone, I was grumpy, and more than anything, I really just wanted to be alone. Birthday Botcher rushed to my side, being overly fussy and cramping my space, while at the same time, commanding me to “be happy cuz it’s your birthday!”
His overzealous peppiness killed the last of my decency. You know what? NO. It’s my birthday, and I’ll be cranky if I want to, dammit!
Birthday Botcher met my grunt with a quick, “Well fuck you then,” hopped in his vehicle, peeling out, and leaving me standing in the driveway with everyone staring. Ten minutes later, his sorry ass crawled up the driveway, begging me to have a conversation so he could apologize for being such a douche to me on my birthday. Cool, bro. As if this wasn’t enough, I decided to keep him around long enough to destroy another birthday. Stupid doesn’t even begin to describe the idiot I was.
Year Two:
The big 2-1! Didn’t think it could get much worse than the year before, but oh, think again. I did keep the same boy, so to say I was asking for it understates the situation quite a bit.
Here’s how I spent the biggest drunkfest night of my life: Sober, sitting on a curb, heels in hand, pissed off and ready to go home at midnight. There were no shots, there was no dancing, and I was not consuming ANY alcohol. Could anything be more disappointing than that? Where were my free shots? Where was blacking out and puking all over everything my friends love most? Where was dancing on bar tops and re-enacting scenes from Coyote Ugly? I’ll tell you where it was: patiently waiting for me at Single Girl Circle.
The following year, I kept it stag, had a blast, and did everything I wanted. Moral of the story? Keeping it single, sassy, and sexual on my birthday is the only way to celebrate it right.
So ladies, grab your girlfriends, grab your drinks, hell, grab a dude for the night, but for the love of all good birthdays, lose the boyfriend.
XOXO,
Suz