The book on my coffee table promises answers to the mysteries of life, of love, based on the day of your birth. There are three in the series, the other two being relationship and destiny, and I intentionally have kept them on my coffee table for years now, if only to see my guests flock to them, time and time again. They look to the words inside for validation of their faults, their frailties, their foibles, because if they’re a Taurus, they’re ALLOWED to be stubborn. If their relationship isn’t working out -well, you see right here, it’s just not written in the stars. And if you’re a Gemini, you’re ALLOWED to celebrate your birthday three weekends in a row.

It’s comforting to see that I’m not the only one…Sarah Brown, while not necessarily wearing a grass skirt and coconut bra or touting her birthday just six days past as an excuse for yet another celebration, at least is as semi-fixated as I am. (And we all know that is a gigantic compliment coming from me.) Though I didn’t have the Flaming Lips sing me a birthday song as she did, I was the recipient of no less than thirty-one fantabulous birthday voicemails. (I hope you know I saved them all, since I was less than cognizant when they truly arrived.) The cards are aligning my mantle, the presents – well, they’ve humbled and overwhelmed me with generosity. And even when I’m laying in bed until 6:30pm, a recovery mechanism for the fifth birthday celebration in just eight days, well, it makes it a bit more bearable.

I know, I know – I turn 26 and get all reflective and sappy and girly and [insert negatively connated wuss adjective here] but deal, people. I’m lucky. I’m grateful. And, until nearly 7pm tonight, I was hungover.

Yes, there are some puzzle pieces greatly missing in the second weekend of the celebration of the 26th anniversary of my birth. Such as whether or not I really did make it to Neighbors to eat Chicken Nachos with my hands, whether I won the chicken fights at Franzia Fest 2K3, and whether my liver and I will ever again be on speaking terms after the debauchery I put it through. (I’ve promised it, as well as my faltering synapses, a day or two of rest in preparation for the true festivities, the party this Saturday.)

We swam,

We cajoled,

We cavorted,

We camaraderized.

And when all was said and done, it was a riot. We’ll need our rest, mind you, but it was worth it.

That is, it WILL be worth it when somebody fills me in on why my bottom lip has had no feeling for the past two days.

Anyone? Anyone?