Bitter, party of one

The day after my birthday is kind of like the day after Christmas... somewhat of a letdown. The good news is that I still have a couple of celebrations to look forward to, but the bad news is that it's 364 more days until another day that's all about me.

Being a self-absorbed narcissist, I adore being the center of attention. I like all eyes on me. I welcome the spotlight. Always have for some reason.

So I was really looking forward to my birthday party last night. When I mentioned to one of my NWA friends that I'd spent the last two years alone, she insisted on planning a party. After all, we celebrate everyone in the group's birthday in a big way with parties, dancing, dinners, and sometimes even Patron-filled squirt guns.

And yeah, LB had flaked on me which meant I was going dateless and DD-less, but still... this was my party. It was going to be an amazing night.

Turns out not so much. One singular person showed up for dinner. Everyone else had other plans. And sure, individually they all had good reasons, but collectively it sucks that only one person wanted to celebrate with me. I bought new jeans for this. I gave up a weekend in Tulsa with three of my oldest and dearest friends in order to party with my new friends.

It's my party, and I'll gripe if I want to.

Sure, there's world famine and war and oppression world-wide, so I should be happy I got a free meal (Michelle felt so bad to be the only one there she paid for dinner), but I realized last night that I'm not nearly as popular as I thought I was.

Luckily two more of my friends showed up later, with four others in tow. So four people I'd never met helped me celebrate.

Oh, and LB? Not a word yesterday. Not a text, not an email, not a phone call. Yes, I did tell him to leave me alone and I'm sure one could argue he was merely honoring my wishes, but he did know it was my birthday, and after my making such a big deal out of his, I kind of expected some sort of olive branch. Jerk.

I'm not quite sure why I'm awake a mere four hours after going to bed. But at least I'm over my crying jag and feeling sorry for myself. Next year I'll have lower expectations.