Cell phone serenade & etc

I had dinner tonight with YogaGirl, who joined me at a little wine bar in SE PDX to celebrate my birthday. Had a few flights of wine, some really delicious (but a bit salty) polenta with wild mushrooms and spinach, a few interesting appetizers and creme brulee for dessert.

I'm taking two days to indulge my inner dairy fairy, and then, with the commencement of my 39th year, I must re-enter the dairy-free subculture.

I guess that's what happens by the time you're this age. What you put into the old body starts to matter a lot more, affects you differently and sometimes forces you to pay a steep price.

Otherwise, things are swell. It's not saying much, but my body feels better now than it has in years. Thanks to my twice-daily dog walks and my increasing yoga practice, I'm more fit than I've been in a long, long time. (A broken ankle 15 years ago was a real set-back, to say the least.) And thanks to finally growing out my hair and deciding to color it, my locks are more jaunty and beautiful than they've been since I was in my early teens. I'm looking pretty spiffy, all things considered.

Or at least, The Florist who owns the shop across the street made sure I felt that way. I went to order some flowers from her the other day, and she asked how old I was. I suggested she guess, and she replied, "Well, you know, I call it like I see it. There's no put-on here, so if you really want me to say...," then paused so if I could stop her if I felt like it before adding, "...I'd put you at about 34."

34?! I replied.

"Did I guess high?" she asked. "Because I didn't mean to. That was an honest guess. What are you, 29?"

I laughed.

"You know, people intentionally guess low all the time, and I'm not one of those people," she said.

What do people normally guess for you? I asked, knowing her to be 41.

"As far as I can tell, '38' seems to be a way of saying, 'I think you're probably 45, but I really have no fucking clue,' " The Florist replied. Then she looked at me, "Well, go ahead and tell me. I'm not scared of your funny little number, whatever it is."

I'm turing 39.

She looked at me with a touch of surprise. One of the things I like about The Florist is that she's pretty transparent. I can tell she withholds, but it's also pretty obvious to me that she stands behind whatever comes out of her mouth, that she says what she means. So even though I'm feeling all happy that someone guessed me to be five years younger -- especially when just a few years ago, I was regularly being mistaken for being XGF's *mom* -- I can also take some measure of satisfaction in knowing she wasn't trying to flatter me.

That kinda shit is a birthday gift all unto itself.

Oddly, I got more calls wishing me a Happy Birthday today than I expected even to get tomorrow.

Both of my parents seem to have gotten the date confused -- or just couldn't WAIT to wish me good tidings (rather unlikely) -- and called me today. My dad at least had some explanation: "I have a card for you, but I think I have the wrong address." And sure enough, he did. My mom just was being ... convenient. (No such thing as a day being special anyway!)

But I digress.

I also got my first-ever cell phone serenade (such were the plans they made!). Four of my classmates were out drinking at a bar after school tonight and apparently had planned on me joining them. They called last night to invite me, but I already had plans with YogaGirl, so I begged out. The one who called didn't mention they were attempting to throw me an impromptu party.

So tonight, they went to a bar with the cake one had gotten last night, and they phoned me up. I had just gotten back from hanging out with YogaGirl and was walking my dog down the street when I saw the name of the classmate who invited me out -- someone I rarely ever speak to -- flash on my phone. I answered it.

She said, "UCM?"

Hey, what's up? I replied.

"Happy bithday to you," she started to sing. Then she pulled the phone away from her head, and I heard a chorus of deep male voices sing the song in its entirety. I was floored. They sang pretty well, and even on the cell phone, they sounded good. When they were done, the classmate who called passed the phone around to the singers -- three guys, including King Rex. One of them mentioned how moist was the cake they were eating in my honor, a birthday girl in absentia. I was really touched.

I have plans for tomorrow, but how they will go down is anyone's guess. To celebrate, I'll eat and drink with friends (and maybe one ... politician). In terms of work, I believe I'll be seeing one of my first clients with Schizoaffective Disorder. Or maybe one with Major Depressive Disorder. Someone with Bipolar, anyway? For all I know, I'll have all three! (And they will no doubt make me feel all the better, despite my advancing age, for being so considerably *more* fucked up than I've ever managed to be on the worst days of my worst years. God bless 'em!)

Because I won't have any time tomorrow to treat myself to my own personal delights, I took care of one only-I-can-do-it-for-myself indulgence today. I went to Columbia's mothership, and I purchase two new jackets (which are actually three jackets and one independent fur collar if you break them down). I had to compromise on my desire for something "fashionable" by getting something "attractive and technical," but I otherwise got what I wanted. Cost me a buttload, but for what I (and the pup's walking routine, rain or shine) require in winter, I've learned that it's worth every single fucking penny.

And then, reading the DSM-IV-TR this evening, I received one other gift. It is also a gift from myself. It seems that at some point during my training in diagnosis of mental illnesses, I wrote down the following words on a piece of scrap paper and stuck it in my DSM:

How do crazy people get through the forest?

They take the psychopath.

And I wonder why one of my professors thinks I'm "cynical" about clients. I imagine it's because he doesn't discern much nuance between cynical and ... just funnny.