The concept of a “birthday surprise” is, to most of us, nothing new. In the moment, executed properly, it’s very new to the person whose birthday it is, but overall? We know what a birthday surprise is. They come in different forms, but the concept is the same.
A “surprise birthday,” now, that’s a little different.
Last weekend—the one eight and nine days ago (and ten, if you include Friday)—I went to a friend’s birthday party. She’s someone I used to work with up in Minneapolis. This was not a surprise. I’d known of her birthday for weeks. No, no—nothing surprising about this birthday. We’re going to talk about a different birthday in a minute here. Yes. Well, I would have said it earlier but you started asking about whether her birthday was a surprise so maybe you should let me finish before you chime in with all your questions, ok? Maybe I’ll answer those questions in the blog post. Maybe you should give me a chance to do that.
So.
Went to Mon’s birthday, had a good time, two dudes were there who were new in town and looking to make friends. Mon dated their old roommate when all four of them lived in San Francisco. No idea where the old roommate/ex-boyfriend is (Mon said they’re on good terms, which could mean that she gave him the ol’ Pinochet), but these two dudes are in Austin now. They invited me and another to a housewarming party the next weekend, which is now this past weekend. It was Friday night. I and the other said we’d go, and then the other realized she’d messed up which weekend her childhood best friend’s bachelorette party was and that it was this past weekend and, well, I ended up going to these guys’ housewarming party alone. Mon couldn’t even go. She was at the Odesza concert.
When I rolled up to the party on Friday, I was not the only one there. When I’d been there for twenty minutes, I was the only one there. Literally. I was alone in the apartment of my old work friend’s ex-boyfriend’s old roommates. Their neighbors had left to hit the bars early. They’d left to go help other friends find their front door, since their apartment complex (the one where I used to do laundry for that love-triangularly-managed Airbnb) is a real headache to navigate and not everyone has had six thousand Stuber Eats deliveries over which practice this sort of thing. I stood, for five minutes, entirely alone in the apartment of two strangers. One of whom, I was about to find out, was celebrating his birthday. His phone rang while I was in there. I didn’t pick it up.
I’d told myself I’d take it pretty easy. Had a lot to get done on Saturday and Sunday, was alone with the Fargo for the weekend, the Fargo’s a demanding pup. Then, I found out it was this guy’s birthday. We’ll call him Griff, ‘cause his name is Grant. It was Griff’s birthday. And call me undisciplined, but I’m not going to ‘take it easy’ on the birthday of a guy who only knows ten or eleven people in this city and has only gotten three of them to come to his housewarming. Especially not if I’m surprised with the fact that it’s his birthday and I already have a Lone Star in me.
So, this is how I wound up on the couch Saturday morning, eating delivered Chick-fil-A and receiving furious sniffs from a dog who wanted to know why I smelled like the broken glass bottles she sees on her morning walks. (Fargo was an ally during this period of my life, but she does this thing where if I’m lying down on the couch, she needs to be up there too, so she gets up there and then it’s crowded and then she gets hot so she just stands over me and pants, drool dripping on my shirt. It’s charming. We need a bigger couch.) Worse still, because I’d been drunk and when I’m drunk I text and I tweet and before I got incidentally locked out of my snapchat I used to snapchat, I had a lot to respond to, and a lot of self-inquiry to complete. Also, Burnley blew a 3-1 lead against Blackpool. First Lancashire derby of my Burnley years and they tied at home against a worse team. While I regretted a few choices and got Chinese-water-tortured by a fluffy dog. Did I rally? Yeah, by the end of the day we were both back in homeostasis. I was trying to figure out what meteors need to hit where for the Cubs to make the playoffs, Fargo was taking every single toy out of her basket, playing with it for a minute, then going back to try another one like a conscience-absent nine-year-old getting samples at an ice cream parlor. But it got worse. Because who should text me but the wife of a guy I’d like to be better friends with, saying it was his birthday and they’d be going out just down the street from me. That night. Two surprise birthdays in a weekend.
It seems that, for me, having a Lone Star in me already or not having a Lone Star in me already is a determining factor in how I respond when confronted with a surprise birthday. Because I only waffled for about six minutes before saying no. (In my defense—and see? I feel the need to defend myself—I found out pretty late and this guy is not new in town like Griff is.) Fargo and I stayed in.
The message here? Beware the surprise birthday. And if you are someone inclined to surprise others with your birthday, please understand the risk your inclination unnecessarily places on American economic productivity. You want to avoid a recession? Let people know it’s your birthday up front. I didn’t get shit done the whole weekend. (Although I did provide some stimulus to the new Chick-fil-A downtown.)
I enjoyed this post.