A Day for Recognition

"I'm alive – and that surprised a couple of people."

Namely – my parents. My birth was what my mother refers to in hindsight as a "serendipitous event," but after the knowledge of my conception was acquired, it was: "Oh my dear sweet Jesus;" followed by a string of pinches made by the hands of my mother, and a confetti storm of condoms falling with the thunder of my father's words, "these obviously don't work." This was pre-OMG.

On August the 18th of the year 2008, I unfolded my limbs, curled from the debilitating vibrations of cramps and thought, to the beat of "Happy Birthday", where are the drugs? I army crawled to the bathroom, use of an upright position lost to my menstrual cycle, and rolled into the shower. An hour's worth of hot water burned through the past two un-showered days. I bent to scoop the white-trash remnants into my cupped hands and splashed the water on my neck and wrists. I stepped from behind the white plastic curtain sans cramps and smelling of thievery – the scent of Aveda's trademark rosemary mint.

Wrapped in the afterglow of my kleptomania I stared at the face of a now 23 year old woman. The reflection in the mirror curiously asked, "Why is a birthday so special?" After I had overcome the shock of having a communicative reflection, I responded, "It is the one day you can receive recognition for doing absolutely nothing, apart from making a slippery exit out of the space in between your mother's legs." She gave me a quizzical tilt of her head. "And today is our day," I said. She smiled and lifted her arms to pin wet hair to the crown of my head. With my hair blow-dried and face painted I departed from my throne of towels and slipped on heels the color of impracticality.

We departed from the house – my complaints of the blisters forming around my toes deafening. Once at the restaurant I ordered calamari, blackened salmon, and a side of flies. A heat propelled hallucination of Gordon Ramsey muttered more than one "fuck me" at the sight of the swarms. Because we cannot maintain levels of class for lengthy spans of time we ordered $5 Coronas, despite the frowns of disgust by our waitress, or server, to be politically correct. The meal was delicious, and the conversation too deep (as is always the case with me). I have a sign fixed to my chest that reads: "no shallow diving here." In conforming to birthday tradition, at the conclusion of dinner I was sent to run across the allotted pedestrian crosswalk area and into a CVS pharmacy; to purchase a basket full of embarrassing products, including, but not limited to, personal lubricant (no flavor). This ritual is preformed and subsequently rated on the blush factor scale. I was a cool five.

We returned – excuse me, they returned and I hobbled – to our provisional Midwest housing after much jest and settled in for celebratory drinks. The night, had it been conducted differently, would have ended in front of the television alternating between Guitar Hero III, homegrown karaoke, and vintage drinking games, but the Jager monster reared his ugly head and demanded a change of shoes, public intoxication, and drunken disorderly conduct. He demanded and we complied. The pack moved on to the "BBC."

As I casually sat atop a barstool in a local bar, my closet lesbian, only brought out by consumption of alcohol, and who otherwise is a heterosexual female, made her guest appearance. Sadly there was little to excite her on a Monday night in an unfamiliar town. In my own hindsight I believe that perhaps it was actually a combination of the "Rage Against The Machine" and Bud Light, that it is no longer alcohol alone that can transform hetero into homo, but that there is now a necessary musical influence. Surely this is a sign that as I age more is required to summon the inner lesbian.

The next thoughts jotted onto the fraying pages of my journal are increasingly disorganized and the handwriting less legible. Unfortunately I will need more time to decipher and translate them.

Now my special day of senseless recognition has passed and I return once more to the average.

P.S. I now own The Black Keys album "Attack and Release." Here is a lyrical preview: "I was a movin' man in my younger days, but I've grown out of my ramblin' ways."