that it covered where “Emma and Adam” used to be, because he did. Do a grand job. You’d never notice the letters had been anywhere else but where they are now. But it’s usual to say “Happy Birthday” rather than “Congratulations” on a birthday cake, isn’t it? “Congratulations” is what people say when one gets engaged to be married. Or gives birth. Or gets promoted…
And, of course, none of those options now seem to feature in my future.
As I slice into the cake, amidst cheers of encouragement, I feel the tears building up behind my nose. Am I really so unlovable? Am I really so boring that Adam couldn’t stay faithful to me after only five months?
“Don’t even think about it,” Rachel hisses quietly in my ear as I pass her a piece of cake. “He’s not worth the salt of even one of your tears. So eat some damn cake, and think positive thoughts.”
And then she thrusts a piece of the rich, moist cake into my mouth, and pours me another glass of wine. I feel instantly better. Much better.
Kind David and sweet Sylvester, I think, as I glance around the bistro-style restaurant. All lovely silver and pink balloons everywhere and a big banner saying BIRTHDAY GIRL .
And instead of subjecting me to the indignity of weeping my heart out and obsessing madly to a room full of people I don’t know all that well (most of them, it has to be said, are David and Sylvester’s friends—their parties are legendary), David spent an hour calling around to tell people the party was canceled.
Instead, this is an intimate gathering of my nearest and dearest. The people who love me and don’t mind if I walk around pulling at my hair and wailing very loudly about sackcloth and ashes, and that the end is near, and blathering on about how much I love Adam…and how much I detest Adam…
When my whining self-pity graduated to shaving my head and moving to Thailand to become a Buddhist monk (I read somewhere that the first female monk was ordained there quite recently), they decided it was time to distract me from my grief with birthday gifts.
And this is what my lovely friends got me.
Tish. Three-month subscription to her gym. “You’re always obsessing about your lack of muscle definition,” she tells me. “This will help. We can go together, you, me and Rachel. It’s Pilates, yoga, and kick-boxing—you’ll love it.” It’s a great gift. The only problem is that the gym is in Hoboken, which means it’s only convenient if I actually live in Hoboken. Which I don’t—I live in Manhattan. But, of course, that may change in view of Bastard Adam, as I can’t afford Manhattan rental prices. Unless some lovely godmother/real-estate agent appears in a poof of fairy dust and says those magic words— rent controlled. Still, this gift is a lovely thought. Very thoughtful person, Tish.
David and Sylvester. A three-month supply of a natural product that promises to enhance and expand my bust. “Darling, our friend Gloria swears by it,” says David. “Complètement, chérie.” Sylvester nods in agreement. “She went from a thirty-six B to a thirty-six C.” But how long will I need to take this? Will it be every day for the rest of my life, like Rogaine? (Although, obviously, not hair-inducing but breast-inducing.) Apart from which, Gloria started out life as Danny, so I’m not sure about this. But again, very thoughtful. Do I really obsess all the time to all of my friends about my skinniness and lack of boobs?
Katy and Tom (only happily married straight couple of my acquaintance). A three-month supply of a milkshake-type body enhancer. To help me put on weight and build muscle. A good thought, but I don’t want to resemble an eighties-style Iron Curtain female athlete. I make a mental note never to mention boobs or muscles to any of my friends ever again.
Rufus. An organic cookbook. Very nice. (Although he’s not my closest, most personal friend, I did spend nearly three years having breakfast in his deli
And, of course, none of those options now seem to feature in my future.
As I slice into the cake, amidst cheers of encouragement, I feel the tears building up behind my nose. Am I really so unlovable? Am I really so boring that Adam couldn’t stay faithful to me after only five months?
“Don’t even think about it,” Rachel hisses quietly in my ear as I pass her a piece of cake. “He’s not worth the salt of even one of your tears. So eat some damn cake, and think positive thoughts.”
And then she thrusts a piece of the rich, moist cake into my mouth, and pours me another glass of wine. I feel instantly better. Much better.
Kind David and sweet Sylvester, I think, as I glance around the bistro-style restaurant. All lovely silver and pink balloons everywhere and a big banner saying BIRTHDAY GIRL .
And instead of subjecting me to the indignity of weeping my heart out and obsessing madly to a room full of people I don’t know all that well (most of them, it has to be said, are David and Sylvester’s friends—their parties are legendary), David spent an hour calling around to tell people the party was canceled.
Instead, this is an intimate gathering of my nearest and dearest. The people who love me and don’t mind if I walk around pulling at my hair and wailing very loudly about sackcloth and ashes, and that the end is near, and blathering on about how much I love Adam…and how much I detest Adam…
When my whining self-pity graduated to shaving my head and moving to Thailand to become a Buddhist monk (I read somewhere that the first female monk was ordained there quite recently), they decided it was time to distract me from my grief with birthday gifts.
And this is what my lovely friends got me.
Tish. Three-month subscription to her gym. “You’re always obsessing about your lack of muscle definition,” she tells me. “This will help. We can go together, you, me and Rachel. It’s Pilates, yoga, and kick-boxing—you’ll love it.” It’s a great gift. The only problem is that the gym is in Hoboken, which means it’s only convenient if I actually live in Hoboken. Which I don’t—I live in Manhattan. But, of course, that may change in view of Bastard Adam, as I can’t afford Manhattan rental prices. Unless some lovely godmother/real-estate agent appears in a poof of fairy dust and says those magic words— rent controlled. Still, this gift is a lovely thought. Very thoughtful person, Tish.
David and Sylvester. A three-month supply of a natural product that promises to enhance and expand my bust. “Darling, our friend Gloria swears by it,” says David. “Complètement, chérie.” Sylvester nods in agreement. “She went from a thirty-six B to a thirty-six C.” But how long will I need to take this? Will it be every day for the rest of my life, like Rogaine? (Although, obviously, not hair-inducing but breast-inducing.) Apart from which, Gloria started out life as Danny, so I’m not sure about this. But again, very thoughtful. Do I really obsess all the time to all of my friends about my skinniness and lack of boobs?
Katy and Tom (only happily married straight couple of my acquaintance). A three-month supply of a milkshake-type body enhancer. To help me put on weight and build muscle. A good thought, but I don’t want to resemble an eighties-style Iron Curtain female athlete. I make a mental note never to mention boobs or muscles to any of my friends ever again.
Rufus. An organic cookbook. Very nice. (Although he’s not my closest, most personal friend, I did spend nearly three years having breakfast in his deli
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