It's my birthday again. I'm twenty-eight this time. I'm not surprised.
My body is a mystery to me. Some nights I'll drink five beers and feel like death warmed over twelve hours later. Yesterday I had three margaritas, a Manhattan, a double Jack and Coke, an Irish car bomb (thank/curse you, li'l sis), a tequila shot (“”), and an undetermined amount of beer. My head tried to ache a little this afternoon but gave up. No complaints, mind you, but that makes zero sense.
Every seven or so years, depending on leap years, my birthday falls Labor Day, which was also the day I was born. Monday's child is fair of face.
I called Mom and thanked her for not holding all twenty-seven hours of labor against me. It would've been understandable, all things considered. It's ninety-plus degrees outside, which is actually cooler than the record hot day in 1980 when I decided to pop out. They didn't have A/C in their apartment, either. It's a wonder she didn't saddle me with six flavors of guilt my whole life long over that.
People occasionally ask me what I want for my birthday. There is never a genteel enough way to say you don't want anything. You always look like you're being difficult. But really, just having a lot of people show up and have drinks with me until two a.m. is generosity enough for me. If they also want to buy the drinks, I will not say no.