Friday, June 17, 2005

Happy I Left the Womb Day

Around 6:30 this morning there was a series of pounding thuds at my front door.

Since I was still asleep, my mind grabbed these sounds and proceeded to turn them into the fists of Winona Ryder, begging to be let back into my comforting arms. She was wearing a black spaghetti strap dress and looking rather neckish. I was about to let her in when I realized she sounded like a New Jersey cabbie.

I jumped a few inches in my bed when I realized the pounding was drowning my birthday in impending doom.

I threw on a t-shirt that was conveniently located on the floor from the night before and hobbled to my front door.

I glanced through the peep hole first, which I don't know why I do since those things never work. I usually imagine they're for the thought police to peer in and see when I'm doing something illegal, like dreaming about a scantily clad Winona Ryder.

All I could see was a bright color of yellow.

I opened the door and probably would have been startled if I wasn't rubbing eye boogers from my face.

Standing there, and looking none too pleased, were the numbers "3" and "5".

Add them together and they form the number of times I've winced at the sight of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes canoodling together on Entertainment Tonight.

Separately, they create my none too pleasing new age.

Sigh.

They were both eight feet tall with Muppet like yellow hair. The "3" was grinning and hopping up and down, really excited to be in my presence. The "5" on the other hand, was grimacing and rolling his eyes at the sight of his forced upon partner.

"Excuse me," asked "3". "Would you be Stacy Without an E?"

Still not conscious and continually flashing back to Winona's naked nape, I mumbled what was either an expletive or a "yes."

"3" handed the papers he was holding and shoved them into the rather cartoonish hands of his numerical cohort.

They barrelled in as "3" performed an Ashlee Simpson type jig. "5" continued to examine the paperwork, seeming unsure as to whether he wanted to be in my humble abode.

"Excuse me again Mr. Without an E, but where would your closet be?"

I slumped down on the couch and began to tilt over from fatigue. I yawned that my closet is probably somewhere in the bedroom.

"3" began to grin from ear to ear. "5" began pounding his fist into his free hand.

And then things turned really ugly.

They both scurried into my bedroom and created quite a commotion. A struggle began to ensue. Then yelling. Breaking glass. Even louder yelling.

I began to rise to discover whether or not I would be losing my security deposit when what appeared to be a giant "4" ran past me screaming. He was pale, weak and limping as he ran. Behind him followed his equally fragile cohort, another "3", only shorter.

They both stopped before me and put out their hands, believably to shake mine.

The dilapitated "4" spoke first with a very proper accent.

"A pleasure these past 365 days."

"3" stepped forward and offered his hand as I finished shaking "4's".

"That whole dialysis thing really shook us up, but you managed and survived. If I had a hat sir, it would be off to you."

I finished shaking his hand and they both did a quick, syncronized dance.

And then they were gone.

The newly minted "3" came out wearing a pair of my favorite boxers, stretching them out due to his size. "4" followed reading one of my new Playboy's, the one with Bai Ling on the cover.

"So," asked "3" as he devoured the remainder of my Cheetos, "this is your life, huh?"

The addition of these two digits wasn't multiplying my enjoyment of my birthday. I began to summize that they would need to be divided fractionally if I were to survive the remainder of my day.

I quickly sprung to action. With all my strength, I pushed "3" as hard as I could into "4". I rammed them both into the nearest wall and pushed with all my might.

I used every ounce of hate I have for dialysis, rock radio and "The World According to Jim" to push both numbers together.

They began to shudder at first, but then their forms began to melt. Their bodies became extremely hot as I continued to push harder and harder.

"My......age......will......not......define......me!!"

They struggled and squirmed, but finally, their fight was all but gone.

Standing before me, motionless, was a giant number "8".

I pushed the "8" to the floor and it landed with a resounding thud. I grabbed my hacksaw and cut both ovals into smaller circles. I grabbed both together and hoisted them over my shoulder.

I proceeded to my apartment complex pool and flung them in. The kids love them. One of them saved an elderly women who couldn't handle the deep end.

I spent the remainder of the day content in the fact that I had defeated the albatross of age that had been looming over me for the past few weeks.

Stamina and vitality have been traded for fatigue and wisdom. Enthusiasm transformed into cynicism. Life seems less complicated. Truth is an occasional gift.

And I'm not 35. I'm 29 for the seventh time.

Don't forget that.

2 comments:

  1. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!

    Umm, I know I'm dumb and all (oh will you stop) but wouldn't it be 29 for th 6th time?

    Not the point, however. I hope that the rest of your birthday was wonderful. I wish you a kidney in this new year and no more fucking dialysis.

    Life is less complicated because of the wisdom, fatigue, and cynicism, God bless it. We are where we are because we fought through all the bullshit to get here. And yes, life is an occasional gift. You put it perfectly eloquently.

    I'm glad we've become friends, I love your blog, your cynicism, your truly kind nature, and the fact that you still manage to read my blog. Happy birthday, my friend.

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  2. HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY belated 29th birthday. Wow, after reading Julie's comment, anything I say is just a big pile of shameful not-living-up-to-any-expectations-or-standards. So, yeah, what she said.

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