surprise birthday party

Last Tuesday was my birthday. And parts of the day Ariel and Jen were horrible to me. Jen told me she couldn't have dinner as she had to work. While Ariel dismissed my invitations to go out and celebrate. At six o'clock, I finally gave up and opened my textbook, I was ready to spend the night at home readingTitus. I thought it was a fitting text to teach me about vengeance and violence. I was just learning about Tamara's plot to bring Titus's vanished eldest son back to Rome when Ariel arrived at my house. I was pleased. I really didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to be one of those needy people that goes on a date (people Anya has told me about) with a stranger on their birthday because they have no friends to take them out. Nor did I really want to read Shakespeare's most violent play. I was such a perfect victim for I didn't suspect anything eventhough numerous blunders were done by Ariel and Jen. Ariel suggested this restaurant on Commercial Drive, I was so pleased that I said yes. It was funny because while we were at my house, Ariel dropped a hint, "Oh, are you wearing anything cool underneath your vest? You know how restaurants get so hot sometimes." Of course, I was clueless, and craved company that nothing she said really registered.

We took the bus to Bukowski's Bar and Bistro. And when we got there, all these beautiful people were waiting for me. It was amazing to see everyone. I was so happy! After dinner, Ariel, Jen, and Richard took me to Desire. Mark was so gracious to give us a ride. One of two hot men that gave us a ride that evening. My birthday was amazing largely due to Ariel and Jen's effort to bring all my friends in Vancouver together.

So yeah, I'm 32 and it feels good. The other day I stayed in bed till 9 in the morning. I laid there examining my body. The weirdest thing, other than my softer rounder belly (which is the result of long hours trapped behind my desk), nothing really shows my age other than my hands. My hands reveal different parts of my life. When I was seven, my sister was chasing me up the stairs and I got a sliver on my right index finger. I remember my sister with a tweezer in her hand trying to remove every single particle out, but there was one piece that was lodged so deep that we both gave up. And that piece of wood is still here to bring me back to that time in our old house on Tramo Street. My left hand ring finger has a scar the shape of a crescent moon from the time I sliced my finger using another hairstylist's chunking shears. It was the height of Rachel Green's hair sensation, and every third client that sat on my chair requested the Aniston look. I was so bored with the damned haircut that I experimented with different types of blades to achieve the same style. Those are only two scars amongst many. The numerous scars on my hands capture different moments in my life. As I age, they become an elaborate map of places where I had been and of people I shared time with.