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 Attending a 21st Birthday

THE GIFT:
People never say what they mean. “You don’t have to get me anything” actually translates into:
“I expect you to spend half of your paycheck on a birthday present that I’m going to put aside quicker than a check out chick packing groceries”. So we must fashion a window of time to accommodate to the search for a collaboration of last minute gifts for the birthday girl:
Vodka from the tattooed man, perfume from the sweet scented chemist, a bright pink lei, etc.

PERFORM BAPTISM:
A solid explanation as to why the shower needed to last an hour.

SATURDAY BEST:
Put on a mask and choose a costume. Practice in the high shoes. It’s important to be proud and tall.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN:
It’s crucial to savour the first sip in solitude. Notice how the neurotransmitters in your brain begin to spark. Get in the car and go, thanks for the lift, Ma.

ALLOW EGOTISM:
Spot the hostess in the orange dress. Happy birthday, don’t panic, you look great, and so do the desserts, to which she said “I know, I made them.”

DRINK TOO MUCH:
The magic potion of alcohol has been provided for a reason: social elasticity. Enjoy yourself, mingle.
Next time slow down before taking part in the annual rounds of tequila shots (a major component of any Sunbury residential event.) There’s always next time.

DISCLAIMER: It seems apart from biological obligations, extended relatives attend birthday parties to tsk tsk at the thirsty youth, and judge the new home décor.

If we could allow a brief moment of rest while the room is spinning:        ____________________

 

CUE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS: Something about the hyperactivity of any local birthday party sends the average consumer into a half hour of muddied self-reflection. Honesty and delusion combine to create wild philosophies and staccato monologue. This was of course to be shared with a vague acquaintance, as close friends are unquestionably disinterested.

HAND OUT COMPLIMENTS: After recovering from the dramatics, when able to wander around more freely, I spot my friend and his new Dali-esque moustache.
“Hi, you look surreal.” (and I quote…myself). He didn’t get the joke. So we got some pizza.

THE BALLROOM THEORY: The clock strikes 12, and in lieu of turning into a pumpkin, everybody at the ball decides to dance. The music syllabus includes: 80s hits, a disgruntled DJ, demonstrative dance circles with the odd wobbly waltz and shabby salsa. Then there’s awkwardly running into your ex while he presents a jolting rendition of The Robot that matches his awful haircut.

HOMERUN:  As the evening came to an end, and off ladies’ feet came the shoes, it was time to call Dada to pick me up and the end of the performance came by washing away Saturday night’s surrealism.