S.'s Not Birthday

We gathered with the upper-eastsiders and the tourists who had come to feel like upper-eastsiders at the rather pretentious steakhouse S. had picked. (We were the downtowners who had put on our best approximation of finery and were fooling no one.)

After a few glasses of wine, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and whipped out my little calling card which I had had the foresight to bring with me—who doesn’t like drunk dialing?—and called Re-Boyfriend.

“I am very drunk,” I told him.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I think the waiter is hitting on me.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, when I asked for a second bottle of white wine for the table, he asked ‘Do you want a straw with that?’”

Silence. Then laughter.

“CB, he’s not hitting on you, he thinks you’re an alcoholic.”

“It wasn’t like I was the only one drinking it. There are eight people here!”

More laughter.

“And I look really good tonight!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Shutup.”

“I miss you.”

S. came over and collected me.

“Come on, we’re going to meet up with Sam’s boyfriend.”

“I thought you’d be crying by now,” I said as I allowed myself to be put in a cab.

“Why? It. Is. Not. My. Birthday.” S. held up a finger warningly.

“Sorry. Do you think the waiter thought I was a drunk?"

"He thought we were all drunks. Do you know how many bottles of wine we ordered? And Rachel told him he was 'too hot for the wait business.'"

"Yeah..." I hate it when Re-Boyfriend is right. "Maybe we should have told him it was your birthday."

"It. Is. Not. My. Birthday." S. looked like she might get angry.

"Sorry! Sorry."

All in all, for a girl that had two twenty-first birthdays, S. handled the transition to twenty-five very well. And I am still impressed with my ability to make an international call when drunk. (And on my first try!)