So, tomorrow is my birthday and for the first time in my entire life, I am not really celebrating. Not because it’s my 49th, which is just a necessary evil before getting to have a total blowout for the big 5-0. Not because it falls on a Wednesday, which is a lame day for a soiree. Not because I haven’t reclaimed the splits, which I vowed last year to demonstrate at this year’s party.
But because June 14 also happens to be the birthday of one Donald J. Trump, and I cannot fathom celebrating that sexist sociopath even by coincidence and association. And, it gets worse. Not only is the Donald ruining my birthday, he is also ruining my second favorite day of the year—National Bourbon Day, which is also June 14th. In the past, having these coincide seemed like perfect kismet. Now, it seems like a hateful trick played by cruel fate, who must be a conservative.
I refuse to share my day with Trump, but I also cannot imagine not commemorating the fact that I’ve managed to stay alive this long. So, I’ve found a solution. This year, I’m moving my birthday. Technically, I was supposed to be born on July 1, 1968 but my mother’s OB/GYN had a prescheduled vacation to Hawaii, so they induced labor two weeks early. Side note: this was also the doctor that prescribed my mother Valium to calm her nerves throughout the pregnancy and suggested washing it down with a little white zinfandel.
Also, as opposed to the aforementioned, some really fabulous people were born on July 1, including George Sand, Indiana Jones, Deborah Harry, and Princess Diana. And though, I’m a Gemini through and through, I think I can be a capable and caring Cancer for a day.
So, how will I be celebrating this new and improved birthday? In spectacular style, of course. I’m starting out the day with Goat Yoga at Sunny Acres Farm, then a champagne brunch. Then, shopping—mama needs a new pair of shoes. Late afternoon will entail bourbon, boating, and burgers. That evening, they’ll be shooting fireworks off over the lake, which I’ll pretend are being launched just for me. If you’ve never seen skyrockets exploding over and reflected on the water, you haven’t lived. At some point, I’ll slip in some sex. And cake...no pie...coconut cream pie. Successful solution found.
However, next year, I am taking my frickin’ birthday back. I’ll let him have 49, but by God, 50 is mine! Though entirely selfish, I see this as just one more reason that Trump must be impeached…and before June 2018. Amen and hallelujah.
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