Too little, too late…

Oh the joys of being young, and single with an inbox on Facebook.

Ok, we all have him/her. The one who changed you for the rest of your lovers and essentially broke you. There was usually a messy break-up that forced you into a Ben & Jerry’s a coma or made you read books like my personal favourite, “It’s Called a Breakup Because it’s Broken“, that uses wit and charm and blunt humour to make you realize he’s a jerk and you’re getting fat. Just put the ice cream down and walk away. Nevertheless, you needed that one. We all need the guy/girl who makes us a cold-hearted you-know-what so that we’ll be stronger, and less gullible, daters.

Now, usually you still think about, let’s call him… jerk-off (or JO for short), once in a blue moon when your latest and greatest conquest leaves you for a busty blonde 21-year-old named Amber – but besides that, all contact is usually cut like an umbilical cord. After all, having JO in your life means the worst side of you gets exposed and you end up looking all kinds of crazy – and no one wants that. I made a pact to delete and never look back… well until the dreaded facebook message appeared.

Late apologies are like a missed shoe sale – it’s not better late than never, it’s now buying shoes at full price, and that my friends is never a good thing. Either are late apologies. In fact, writing a note of apology 2 years later and tacking on the “better late than never” means the message subject line should have read, “the mumblings of a huge douche-bag”.

So word to the wise: the window of opportunity for a great shoe sale is minimal – so is your chance to undo your wrong doings. Unless of course you’re in therapy, and doing a 12-step program. Which in fact is where I should be for shopaholics. And when I am, I will be sure to spare the overdue apology to all the men in my life who have come second to a fabulous shoe sale. My apologies.

Birthday Beats

Another one bites the dust.

I am now another year older, supposedly wiser, a few dollars richer and a few notches on the belt deeper. Oh, the tradition of the birthday celebration.

I miss the days of loot bags (I did have them this year as candy jewelry never goes out of style) and dance offs with prizes, party dresses that came to the knee and birthday cake with only a few candles.  Where did the days go of simply sending out hand-written invites and knowing your selected guests would be there with bells on from 2:00 PM to 5:00 PM? The moments when streamers were all that was left on the walls and wrapping paper littered the ground to show another year celebrated? Instead, all I am left with is a killer headache and a brain filled from the whirlwind of a 5 day-birthday-bender laced with bad choices.

I save my best text messages for these nights. My best dance moves, my best lines, my best “you’ll always be my friend” heart-to-hearts and of course my most embarrassing, “if you were here…” subconscious confessions. I have realized, slowly but surely, that my birthday is grand, is fun, is fabulous until the day after. I’ve done the one apology that needed to be made, but mostly my birthday is a time for my friends to get a real kick over how silly I can actually be. How much I can let go of my usual wound up self and actually let the good times roll!

So with that, I raise a glass, to the new phase of birthday traditions. To having a classy heart felt dinner to celebrate with the people I love the most, and concluding it with a birthday beat-down bash resulting in having those same people remember why they love me after all. Cheers!