Chris is banging pots and pans around the kitchen making dinner. It makes me surprisingly nervous. It’s not that I don’t trust him in there–I do. It’s just a little bit like letting your kid drive your car, knowing they’re a very good driver, but also feeling a little bit like “but that’s my CAR.” It’s sweet, though, him making dinner. He came up with this well-designed menu, with a wine list that includes “a bottle of non-fat wine made with calorie-free grapes.” He’s had 3 choices for salad/appetizer, 3 choices for main course, and 3 choices for dessert. I just had to pick. And he filled out an official mise en place sheet with his ingredients and timeline. Friggin’ adorable. And I’m just supposed to sit, quietly drinking wine and watching House Hunters, which is cruelly playing a Denver episode, which is exactly where I wish I were right now. Because it’s my birthday.
This is my first birthday away from home. I’ve had plenty of birthdays where I didn’t see my family on the actual day (on account of my ongoing obligation to get shithoused on my birthday), but it was always okay because I’d see them on the weekend and celebrate jointly with my little sister, who has the same birthday as I do. So being in school today working my ass off, and then doing grocery shopping and going to the gym and baking a gorgeous triple-caramel cake for grand rounds tomorrow, despite not having a cake myself, well…it kind of put me in a mood. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’m grumpy that I’m getting older.
It’s not a problem yet. I mean, today at the store I was all schwaggy in my gym clothes getting some eggs when I heard some old guy say “you are absolutely beautiful,” like right by my ear. I definitely didn’t look up, but just scurried away to my cart. I had that weird thing going where I was all pleased with myself and flattered, even though I should have been creeped out. But then again, it’s nice to know that some old perv was so taken with my general appearance that he was compelled to ignore all basic social cues and cross that line into creepiness. Which is nice, right? But then I remembered all those scary-ass episodes of Dexter I’ve been watching, and then I got really scared and looked over my shoulder the whole way home. I’m totally afraid of serial killers, but am strangely captivated by the series. I have it on DVD, so I’m able to do that whole “view the whole season all at once” thing that makes television way more enjoyable.
I don’t plan on aging gracefully. I know that much. I realized it this afternoon, as I miserably ran on a treadmill at a crazy incline with a teeth-whitening tray in my mouth and really short track shorts. I’m going to fight it tooth and nail, and be one of those crazy old ladies who are addicted to facelifts so that they look like siamese cats, wear clothes from Bebe sport that belong only on lithe teenage bodies, except that it will be okay, because I will continue to purchase any necessary body parts to remain as lithe and teenager-y as possible. I’ll be like a little blonde Frankenstein in pink spandex. Woot!
Oh, and speaking of Dexter and my whitening trays, I’ve got two AWESOME new diets that are helping me strive for that strong, streamlined look that you only see on thoroughbred horses, except I’m thinking more the thoroughbred horses that you see on Animal Planet who have all of their riblets showing through their coats because nobody fed them. I wish people would stop feeding me… Anyway, the new diets:
1) The Dexter diet: Every night, at dinner, I put on a new episode of Dexter. It’s terrifying, which makes my stomach turn into knots and then I can eat only a fraction of my regular dinner! It’s really effing brilliant.
2) The Invisalign diet: I put the whitening gel into my Invisalign trays and put them in my mouth for two hours a day. This will give me straight white teeth, in keeping with my grasping need to look like I’m 23. But the side bonus is that I can’t eat while I have them in. Like, it’s basically impossible. So I put them in right after school and leave them in until dinner. That prevents a ridiculous number of categories, since I spend most afternoons wandering around my kitchen opening and closing my mouth around anything I can find, like Ms. Pacman.
I figure with these two at my side, along with protein shakes that taste like nutsack, running as my only form of socialization (pub run, races, running club), and the dangling carrot of my honeymoon in Mexico, that I’m pretty much guaranteed to locate my abs during my 27th year. I mean, they’ve GOT to be in there somewhere, right?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on glitter eyeshadow and listen to Hannah Montana on my iPod. I dare you to challenge that. I’m allowed to say whatever absurd things I want. Because it’s my birthday.