This morning I woke up and became friends with the lead character from the television show, “Gossip Girl.” Her name is Blake Lively, the actress who plays the precocious blonde Serena Van Der Woodsen, who, in the fictional world of television, has a lot of sex and a very, very bad reputation. She also took Dan Humphrey’s virginity in episode 11. In real life, Blake is 69 percent sexy, according to the “Is My Name Sexy” quiz on her Facebook. She attended Burbank High School, has pets, doesn’t have children and definitely does not smoke. She’s single and believes in God.
This was my birthday present from Kat, a friend from work. She gave me a link to Blake Lively’s Facebook page, along with the message, “happy barf day.” Kat is fully aware that I watch “Gossip Girl,” a fact that has made some of my close friends question my integrity.
Today, I turn 22. To celebrate my birthing and the fact that I’m no longer 21 (or youthful or exciting), I decided this morning to dress nicely—in all black, for my happiness’s funeral. I grabbed a nice black, long-sleeve collared shirt, which I bought from Nordstrom’s for a price I’d rather not remember and buttoned it up to the top. I dressed in black pants and a $300 black blazer I bought from a Barney’s in New York over spring break. Over my shirt was a black skinny tie I bought from H&M for much cheaper—it was already tied because I have no idea how to tie ties and one day decided to follow directions on YouTube. Thank you, YouTube.
Birthdays are a spectacular thing. On birthdays, I expect some sort of monetary or emotional compensation for an act that I don’t remember putting much effort in. From what I can recall, I really was popped out and for that I’m entitled the world on this day of April for every year, for the rest of my life. Every year I invite friends over to celebrate, well, me. Bars, house parties, dinners—these things are totally free of charge on my birthday. And this is the beauty of being born. Forget the first breath of air, or the first sloppy Gerber meal that was umbilical cordless. What I really meant to do on the way out was ask for a dollar.
In episode seven, Serena attended her best friend Blair’s 17th birthday. It was Asian-themed. There was fresh sushi, anime on video screens and girls dressed as Sailor Moon. There was also Guitar Hero. Serena had been jealous of her new boyfriend’s old best friend, Vanessa, who was exotic-looking and artistic, and decided to challenge her Guitar Hero skills. Serena won the battle, scoring higher after playing “Free Bird.”
Unfortunately, having just friended Blake Lively, I didn’t have enough time to invite her to my birthday party, which is unfortunate because I play a mean Dragon Force and am very confident that I would have beat her if she challenged me. And what would I even say to her if I invited her? “Dear Blake, I know we just met, but, well, would you like to play Guitar Hero III with me on my birthday?” Would I have given her my phone number if she wanted to go? Maybe it would’ve been worth a shot.
Later in the day, I walk into work, around 1 p.m., just out of my Spanish class that no one seemed to attend, which was fine because I made sure to point out to el profesor Martin que el hoy día es mi cumpleaño, and that I still made it to class. As I pass the customer service desk at work I see my boss and a co-worker.
“Well you look nice,” Shira, my co-worker says. I spent all day trying to figure out a reason, aside from narcissism, for dressing nicely. Is there even any reason more important? Narcissism is very important.
“I’m wearing my birthday suit,” I say. I feel as if Serena Van Der Woodsen would be proud. She’s scandalous like that. Maybe I’ll invite her next year.