Gumby Braves the Inevitable

Yesterday I turned 24, making me officially older than The Boy, and really, just officially old. (Disclaimer: Men, except for perhaps Parker, you might just want to take today off, because I feel like you're bound to be confounded by this post.) My brother called, singing a song he wrote about how I’m really getting old and he just realized it. Little Sister mentioned in one of her (seventh grade) classes that I was turning 24 and one of the kids said, “Did she know George Washington?” This is the first birthday on which I was not embarrassed to tell my coworkers my age. So, naturally that lack of shame made me feel bad. Today, a well-meaning gentleman told me I don’t look a day over 25. I always wondered at what point the pendulum swings from wanting to appear older than you are to wanting to appear your age…or maybe just a little younger. Apparently, that point is 24. Having a fiancé with the tendency to call me “granny” and do “preventive maintenance” on my chin/neck (by tapping them with the back of his hand to deter the effects of gravity) doesn’t help.

The birthday began with the third and, hopefully, final installment in the “Please Believe I’ve Never Done Drugs, You Just Have To” trilogy, airing promptly at 8:00 AM. This time, though, it included discussions about my honesty regarding friends, parents and supervisors. I wanted to tell the guy, seriously, it’s never really been dishonesty that’s gotten me into trouble. Pretty much every argument I have is due to the fact that I don’t usually filter the truth. Somehow I got through it, though, and it would seem that is the last time I will have to. Until five years from now, when my entire life will be different. I’m still planning on being honest then, so, according to my understanding of this system, that probably means I’ll have to take the test an additional three times at that point.

At work, I was supposed to have a 1:00 meeting with the Bob (not two of them, just the one this time) to discuss my future with the company. (Following the recent “Everything will Stay Exactly the Same!” Merger, we are on the verge of down-sizing. Don’t worry, this doesn’t even faze me anymore. I’m like Gumby.) I headed down to the 3rd floor café for this meeting (since I do not have access to certain spaces and no one wants to sit with me at my counter), and there was a surprise party for my birthday! Flowers and cake and…loaves of bread and blocks cheese? I had already eaten lunch, but that was not the point. This choice of refreshment seemed odd. Until the Texan announced that she had it on “good authority” that my favorite thing is “cheese on toast.” I felt heat begin to creep up my chest and neck. She explained to those who had gathered that she Googled me and discovered that I looooove cheese on toast, thereby forcing me to explain that a story of mine is published on the literary e-zine Toasted Cheese. I suppose this gesture could have been seen as thoughtful, and I pretended to take it as such, but all I can really say is ew. And also, who does that. Also, shut up. But the idea of the whole birthday surprise was lovely. I also received multiple bags of Skittles, ostensibly to get me through the bevy of days that await at my “temporary” umm... “workspace” (i.e., the counter in the middle of everyone’s way). Seems that I should probably just be rejoicing that I am what the Bob and Texan both proclaim “cheap,” so I don’t have anything to worry about. Mmm, should we be telling those under our employ that they are underpaid?

The birthday continued with Dwayne Johnson inspiring pilates on the living room floor while Scott Speedman brooded in the background (i.e., I was watching Felicity) before dinner at the Melting Pot with The Boy and several friends. At that dinner, Gabe gave me a flowery “Daughter” card with only the words, “We need to talk” printed on the inside, and Edie gave me the cake she baked that slid across the seat of her car. The taste was not affected, and a smashing good time was had by all.

The birthday festivities continue tonight, with The Boy “surprising” me. I assume this means it will be a surprise to him as well, as he really hasn’t planned anything. I told him, not that he was ever under any obligation to begin with, but with the introduction of Dwayne Johnson and all things associated with him, birthdays and holidays between now and our blessed arrangement are going to have to be uncomplicated affairs. I'm envisioning sing-alongs where the only songs played are, "Love is All You Need," and, "I Got You, Babe."

We have yet to decide on a venue for the “after-party” of the event (read: the reception), because we can’t seem to be able to find time to discuss it without the people who are seeking to collect several thousand G’s from us looming over our shoulders. So we need to give that some attention, or else there may not be a party after all.

Tomorrow morning the house hunting begins, a little too soon for my taste, but My Fajsha and The Boy think that now is the time to get on that. Which I will probably appreciate when the wedding is closer, but now it’s all a bit overwhelming. (Also, anyone who knows BigJohn can understand this, and anyone who doesn't, just take my word for it-- this whole The Boy and BigJohn being in cahoots and talking more frequently to each other than either of them do to me is frankly a bit unsettling.) It's all a good kind of overwhelming, certainly, but apparently it's time for a cool change or two. Or seventy.