The last birthday I enjoyed was number 30: I had a big party, knocked back several litres of mojitos, and polaroids were taken to immortalise the event. It was the occasion of my last ‘proper’ hangover, as I realised a couple of days later that I was pregnant. Got very out of practice after that and haven’t properly regained by beer legs since then.
I don’t remember what I did last year for 31. 32 doesn’t feel like much cause for celebration. This year has after all seen me go from Mademoiselle to Madame at the bakers shop. Even though I have no wedding ring. And no-one tries to grope me in the metro any more.
Miss Tadpole woke up on her birthday to a living room full of balloons. I woke up this morning to comatose Frog with hangover and the usual race against the clock to get Tadpole and I out of the door on time, preferably wearing clean clothes. No-one at work remembered. My boss took me out for lunch, but I realised that this was in fact a coincidence as the subject of my birthday didn’t come up during conversation.
As family and friends are mostly in the UK, they sent cards with vague promises of gifts next time I’m over. The card from my mother featured Miffy and was intended more for the Tadpole’s pleasure than my own. Even my present from the Frog – a mini camera so I can post pics to this blog – hasn’t been delivered yet.
So, YES, you’re damn right I’m feeling sorry for myself.
Have a heart: post your worst birthday ever story into the comments below to cheer me up.