It’s Sunday and it’s seven a.m. and I’ve been up for quite a few minutes. This is fine now because the weather is nice and it always feels good to get a jump on an old day. Later, though, I will be yawning and rubbing my eyes like a child. I’ll need to do a sleeping cap and my eye-mask and hop into bed no later than eight p.m.! Eight p.m., can you imagine it? How embarrassing! How dreadful! How unlikely! It will never happen. I can most usually be seen howling at the moon all night long, going nuts, partying until the sun comes up.
Last Monday was my birthday, and I spent it well. I’m not too keen on birthdays, to be honest. It’s not that I’m sad about growing older. I’m aware that the transition from twenty-two to twenty-three is nothing special or impressive. I like celebrating the birthdays of others, and I remember a time when I was stoked on my own, but it’s been awhile. I wonder when the switch happened. Probably the year that I had a sleep-over and we watched IT because the film caused me to fear to shower, and dirty is no way to enter a new year of life.
I think I just don’t like the type of attention birthdays bring. It embarrasses me. While I’m sure it’s not as visible as I think it is, I get awkward and shifty about the whole thing. And also, I didn’t really do anything on that June 1st two decades ago. My mom did all of the work. She walked around the hospital corridors alone and tried not to barf while the big, fat, sweaty nurse with major body odor took blood and things in a tiny, June-hot room. While my heart feels squeezed when I think of that, it really was the most appropriate way for a difficult person like myself to arrive, and here I am, still.
So, I took off work Monday and hung out at Central Park. I snagged an epic spot and read a bit of P.G. Wodehouse. I also got a hair cut, used FAO Schwarz for their nice bathroom and ended up looking at all kinds of toys, and then ate Shake Shack for the first time. It was delicious and only made better by Tim Robbins being in line ahead of us. Vince noticed first and said, “Shawshank Redemption guy?” and I said, “Huh?” and he said, “In line ahead of us,” and I said, “WHERE’S SUSAN!?!?” At least, that’s how I remember the conversation.
I really love seeing celebrities, if we’re being honest. Not so much because of who they are, but because of how people, myself included, react to them. Once while I was enjoying some alcohol with Chelsea, I thought I saw Darrell Hammond. He’s not exactly on the top of his game or anything, but I was still young and excitable.
I nudged Chelsea and said, “Chelsea…CHELSEA….dodon’t….look….now…..but Darrell Hammond is right over there!” She proceeded to look around and I scolded her, “Don’t look like that, he’ll see you!” When she spotted the person I was talking about, she laughed at me and said, “That is not Darrell Hammond.” I meekly argued for thirty seconds before conceding that not only was it not Darrell Hammond, but also that it didn’t look anything like him at all. I had jumped the celebrity spotting gun, and Chelsea continues to make fun of me for it to this day.