The night of your 21st birthday.
I don’t remember any of the particulars from my 21st birthday. Before you get all shocked over my audacious and licentious behaviors, it wasn’t because I was too trashed to recall. When I turned 21, a good number of my friends were still underage, so it’s not like I rounded up my posse to go on a madcap pub crawl. Besides, growing up in Buffalo I’d been legally frequenting Canadian bars for several years. The novelty had perhaps already worn thin.
I’ve never really been partial to bar hopping anyway. Invariably some boozy floozy in 5 inch heels spills their drink on me. Girlfriend – heels aren’t sexy if after two fruity cocktails you wobble more than a newborn calf. Then there’s the louts that invade my personal space. Albeit, my personal space requirements are larger than average, but still – no touchy-touchy. I’m not just talking about unauthorized dirty dancing, but also the more gratuitous contact. There is nothing more skeevy then having some drunken lout press you, full body, against the bar and order a drink above your head. (That may be just a short-chick problem.)
As for birthdays, I don’t go crazy overboard, even for the “milestones.” I know people that celebrate their entire birthday month. I’m more of a dinner with a few friends sort. Or even splurge on a special wine and scrumptious meal at home. It doesn’t have to be spectacular.
Although, even when things were good, The Douche never really made that much of an effort. Maybe I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have someone make a fuss over me.