I woke up with a man in my sheets. We laid there in the dim morning light, rays sifting through blinds in the background like a gentle call to get up and start a beautiful, fantastic birthday day.
We went out for lunch so I could get my first sandwich in 40 days; ever since Lent consumed me, I hadn't eaten bread (forget about tortillas and cereal and pita, those don't count as breads in my book). Great things come to those who wait in dire and urging times. I was titillated with the long last opportunity and company to divulge.
I took my new-found slice of heaven, made of focaccia, to Golden Gate Park and the Botanical Gardens, where we strolled straight to a bench on an off-beaten path next to purple and yellow wild flowers. There is where I bit into the heaven and let the herbs and flavors and juices slowly melt into my taste buds, awakening a part of me that felt rejected and near dead. In bread-coma, we laid down, intertwined on the wooden stoop, oblivious to other passer-bys. When I closed my eyes, I simply imagined that their oowing and awing for the bright, unexpected flower color was really for how adorable we looked together, resting in the uninhibited afternoon sun.
On the way home we stopped at a shop and we bought birthday irises in a shade blue to match my eyes. We took them home and let them open in the north facing light in my window, under the glow of Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. From there we drank mimosas and made a cake, decorating each other's noses with the creamy chocolate frosting. It was fabulous and romantic.
The day was slipping by like silk on skin so to embrace and celebrate with maximum joy, we took our mimosas to the hot tub. The sun had then set and the air had cooled down, leaving the hot air and steam from the jacuzzi jets mixing with the droopy eyed evening sky in a delicate tango that tickled my nose and brought tears to my eyes. There was perhaps no better way to end the day.
Today was my birthday. My 25th anniversary. The silver.
I'm just thankful that in my new wisdom, I have an unstoppable and youthful imagination. Because in my 25th year reality, I woke up with someone in my sheets, but he slept in the dark, frigged living room while I was in my bedroom. He left hungover without breakfast, and I took myself to lunch. I definitely did walk to that park and to that bench, where after crying underneath my aviators from my loneliness and jealousy of happy couples and families celebrating their holiday, I passed out on the bench like a drunken homeless man, shameless and flatulent without a moment's hesitation. I bought myself flowers. I made my own birthday cake. I drank 3 mimosas, consisting of the cheapest champagne Safeway had to offer. I argued with my landlord for use of the hot tub, and used my sadness as a weapon, telling him it's my birthday and I just need a way to relax. It was the truth, and I think the watery, red eyes helped me get my wants.
It's my birthday and other than my landlord and my brand new roommate who just came home, I haven't seen anyone I'd recognize. There were some calls from my immediate family and some posts on facebook - though there were fewer this year than last - but the echoing voices via satellite failed to impress real love on me. I feel like my 25 year old heart is fossilizing under my own eyes. Without any friends and family and romantic interests to brush off the dust around me, I am just growing older and more fragile at a rate faster than time. By 2010 I'll be nothing.
Maybe my silver is a silver lining... I did wake up hungover with a friend around. I did get to eat bread and nap among the flowers, and eat sugar and drink champagne and soak in a glowing hot tub in the San Francisco night sky. That's positive. But there may be no better time than now to quote my favorite movie and book and adventurer, Christopher McCandless, aka Alexander Super-tramp (Into the Wild) - -
Happiness is only real when shared.
I feel that. Me and ALL my friends, we feel that today.
