Today is my birthday, and I’m happy to report that my mid-life crisis has begun in earnest. I find the best way to get a head start on one of these things is some sort of explosion, or mechanical (swiftly followed by a mental) breakdown. So, naturally, my birthday began when the power went out at 3:30 this morning… and then I eagerly took a cold shower when the power still wasn’t on five hours later. Not to worry, though, the power absolutely came back on two minutes after I got out.
As you may recall, the last time power failed in my neck of the woods, it was the day I found out The Ex was getting married. I’m willing to concede that my level of psychosis that day may have blown out the grid. Apparently, the rising tide of unfounded feelings of betrayal somehow contributed to the blowing up of a local transformer.
Now, while I haven’t exactly embraced this birthday (please picture my nails scraping against the precipice as I claw against the gravity pulling me ever closer to the end of my 30s), I don’t think I can be held responsible for the power outage this morning. Unless, of course, it was one hell of a dream I was having. I have only a vague recollection of both Duchovny and Clooney fighting over me (boys… boys… don’t fight. I’ll just date both of you until we work it out).
It’s not that this birthday hasn’t had some upsides: lovely celebrations with friends and The X-Files gang very generously held a press conference for me today (really, guys, above and beyond giving me new footage to obsess over… what? Had something to do with the movie, and had nothing to do with my birthday? Why are you always so negative?).
There is really only one thing that nudged me closer to the cliff: for the first time in 17 years, I didn’t hear from him. It’s not exactly a surprise: he is married, and we haven’t had contact since we said goodbye at the reunion last year. I’m not suggesting that I was looking for some romanticized gesture, but despite the fact that we’ve stopped corresponding, I still believed he would reach out—some gesture that said “I’m still out here, and I give a shit”. It’s left me feeling bereft, wondering how I managed to be relegated to just someone he used to know.
Never fear, though. I will not backslide. I will not wallow (much) in self-pity and ice cream. I will not start singing from the Gloria Gaynor songbook. I will, instead, dye my hair mid-life crisis red. I have an appointment Saturday, and I think I’m going to do it. If you know me in real life, by Saturday afternoon, you won’t recognize me. In fact, I won’t recognize me. And I think that’s the point.
Kate, planning on looking like Amy Adams by Saturday (but will end up looking like Scooby Doo’s Thelma if she stole Daphne’s wig)
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