My birthday is on Monday.
I wasn’t going to make a big deal of it, but one of my friends convinced me that I was important enough to have a celebration this weekend. She even begged me to do it this weekend because she has an engagement next weekend and didn’t want to miss it.
So I gave in, I thought, “if I make it fun for everyone, even if they don’t give a shit about me, they’ll still come for the fun stuff.”
I was wrong.
I made a reservation at the Hard Rock Cafe in the Gaslamp District, which I still need to cancel, and I told everyone about the Haunted Hotel just down the street, and how you can get discounted tickets through MWR or by buying Crush at Ralph’s. My friend ordered a face cake for me, with buttercream and raspberry filling, my favorite. My boyfriend bought me a beautiful sweater from Nordstrom, it was almost $100. I was going to drink and dance and not care that I was a fat loser, just for one day. I invited 15 people to come.
Four people RSVP’d.
Then one cancelled because the bank messed up her paycheck. I really didn’t think this could possibly be an issue, because my birthday is the first of the month. And it’s not the first of just any month, it’s the first of the new fiscal year. This is when bonuses go out.
Oh, I almost forgot, I was hoping and praying and wishing that a rather important piece of jewelry would be ready, because I was hoping to get engaged tonight, but it’s not, because the jeweler dropped the ball, too.
So, I get it, okay? I guess I really am the fat loser with no friends. I guess I really shouldn’t bother getting my hopes up that maybe, just once a year, the people that are in my life might want to have dinner with me and get the Halloween season kicked off. I guess I don’t get any of that.
This is why I don’t put myself out there, I’m so sick and tired of the rest of the world’s ability to make me feel like shit.
Happy Birthday to me…