It’s always an amusing time, the week before my birthday. Every September the little voices start whispering that some special event is coming up, some excuse for self-indulgence is almost here, until finally the hedonistic floodgates open, letting fly the unique and unbridled narcissism that is somehow socially acceptable on the anniversary of our entrance into this world. I’m not a planner, or much of one for organized celebration, so the whole party thing is out — but I will gladly throw myself into the orgy of consumerism that has been branded to my psyche as “the fun way to celebrate an occasion.”
So throughout the week, I do what every well-programmed consumer does after such prompting: I start buying shit. Fall clothes, overpriced kitchen supplies, fancy eye creams (yes, eye creams - staring at a computer screen for 10 hours a day isn’t without its costs, several of which are currently making their craggy debut around the corners of my eyes), smelly candles with revolting price tags somehow justified by a designer label, earrings that are identical to earrings that I already own but must be acquired nonetheless. Cash is suddenly leeched from my wallet, with each bleeding session accompanied by a careful justification:
“It’s OK to buy that $6 single serving of mocha toffee rice pudding — it’s almost my birthday.”
“Sure, I may already have five carefully asymmetrical tops in varying shades of black and gray, but this one is so cute! And it’s almost my birthday.”
“It’s fine to spend such an obscene amount on edgy handmade ‘Hello Kitty Meets Jason Vorhees’ stationary — it’s almost my birthday. And look! It’s on recycled paper!”
“A tub of forty-dollar triple-lather body scrub that smells like Creme Brulée? Why not — it’s almost my birthday.”
“Organic crocheted hemp mousie toys for $8 a pop? Sure. It’s almost my birthday — why shouldn’t Cat get presents as well?”
And so I arrive home laden with shopping bags, flushed with the always-fleeting excitement that accompanies adding a bunch of new crap to your life.
“You getting excited for your birthday?” Boyfriend asks. “It’s coming up! Almost the last year of your twenties!”
Silence. Flush fades, bags get thrown in a corner.
“No it isn’t. Shut up.”