I've reached an age where you'd think I'd be less and less affected by birthdays.
For the most part, I am. Oddly, though, birthdays are, like, the one occasion when my most basic, neurotic and deep-seated insecurities bubble to the surface.
Take this last one, for instance.
This year I decided to host my own party. Betty Boop and I hadn't had a real shindig at the apartment since last Halloween, so I thought it was high time we had some people over, for drinks and a light nosh.
The Fozz was rather adamant about what a waste of money it would be to go the Fresh Direct route, so he and I shopped like madmen on Saturday and hauled our well-gotten gain up the four flights to The Aerie. I, frankly, have never seen so many vegetables, fruits, salamis and frozen treats assembled in one place before. I felt like the mule and the Sherpa guide both.
Sunday, while Betty Boop and I went to a yoga class, Fozz got busy and turned everything we'd bought into an amazing spread; veggie tray to die for, abundant cheeses, hot artichoke dip. My favorite? Fruit kabobs. The man's a genius.
Anyway, I got back and cleaned the bathroom, and The Boop did some tidying in the common areas, and all was ready.
Here's where my insecurity comes into play.
The appointed time for the party was 8 p.m.
8:00 p.m.: No one's arrived.
8:15 p.m.: No one's arrived.
8:40 p.m.: One guest arrives.
9:00 p.m.: Still me, Fozz, Boop and First Guest.
It's, of course, at this point that a couple of things are running through my head:
You know, of course, what happened next.
It's New York City, of course, so a flood of people arrived late, a good time was had, alcohol flowed (in painfully copious amounts), and I was drowned in love and good wishes.
You'd think that having had this happen more than once in my life would sort of inure me to the effects of my one neurosis, but that's simply not the case.
Happily, though, the evening not only worked out, but turned out to be the one of the best birthdays I've ever had. It was on a par with The Summer of Joe in 2004 (when I turned the big four-oh).
So I survived my birthday, and even managed not to be consumed whole by my own insecurity. Both of which are excellent outcomes, from my perspective.
For the most part, I am. Oddly, though, birthdays are, like, the one occasion when my most basic, neurotic and deep-seated insecurities bubble to the surface.
Take this last one, for instance.
This year I decided to host my own party. Betty Boop and I hadn't had a real shindig at the apartment since last Halloween, so I thought it was high time we had some people over, for drinks and a light nosh.
The Fozz was rather adamant about what a waste of money it would be to go the Fresh Direct route, so he and I shopped like madmen on Saturday and hauled our well-gotten gain up the four flights to The Aerie. I, frankly, have never seen so many vegetables, fruits, salamis and frozen treats assembled in one place before. I felt like the mule and the Sherpa guide both.
Sunday, while Betty Boop and I went to a yoga class, Fozz got busy and turned everything we'd bought into an amazing spread; veggie tray to die for, abundant cheeses, hot artichoke dip. My favorite? Fruit kabobs. The man's a genius.
Anyway, I got back and cleaned the bathroom, and The Boop did some tidying in the common areas, and all was ready.
Here's where my insecurity comes into play.
The appointed time for the party was 8 p.m.
8:00 p.m.: No one's arrived.
8:15 p.m.: No one's arrived.
8:40 p.m.: One guest arrives.
9:00 p.m.: Still me, Fozz, Boop and First Guest.
It's, of course, at this point that a couple of things are running through my head:
- I'm a big fat fucking loser.
- No one loves me.
- I have no real friends.
- I'm destined to die alone and afraid, wrapped in multiple blankets and eating cat food in my dirty, sad little fifth-floor walkup studio in the outer reaches of the Bronx, with street gang wars raging outside, and me 80 years old and afraid to leave my apartment.
You know, of course, what happened next.
It's New York City, of course, so a flood of people arrived late, a good time was had, alcohol flowed (in painfully copious amounts), and I was drowned in love and good wishes.
You'd think that having had this happen more than once in my life would sort of inure me to the effects of my one neurosis, but that's simply not the case.
Happily, though, the evening not only worked out, but turned out to be the one of the best birthdays I've ever had. It was on a par with The Summer of Joe in 2004 (when I turned the big four-oh).
So I survived my birthday, and even managed not to be consumed whole by my own insecurity. Both of which are excellent outcomes, from my perspective.
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