By Dorothy Parker
Well, next week is my birthday. It’s always a stinging reminder to me that I’m not a native New Yorker. I was cheated out of that distinction because I had to go and get born while the family was spending summer vacation in New Jersey. But, honestly, we came back into town right after Labor Day, so I nearly made the grade.
As I was saying, the blessed day occurs next week. The 22nd of August to be precise. I shall be… Hold on! According to my figures, I’ll be 118! Yes, time flies—but surely that can’t be right. I must have carried the 1, or the multiplied the denominator, or squared the hypotenuse. (Frankly, I’ve never had much use for the hypotenuse. Pythagoras—why nag at us?)
Honestly, I’m 29, if I’m a day. Scout’s honor.
Now, I’m not one of those women (you know who they are) who takes special pains to let you know that she’s not going to celebrate her birthday. “It’s just another day to me,” she tells you, and in the next breath she moans, “Oh, I’m getting so darned old!”
We all are, honey. Don’t think you’re so special.
I imagine I’ll celebrate my birthday the usual way: champagne, telegrams from famous friends and piles of presents. Well, that’s the way I imagine it… Who am I kidding? I’ll probably lie in bed with Hemingway (one of his books, at any rate) and a cheap bottle of rye.
You see, I have to take it easy now… Now that I’m getting so darned old.
Dorothy Parker wonders how you celebrate your birthday?
Meanwhile, she appears in MURDER YOUR DARLINGS: An Algonquin Round Table Mystery, available now. She and her cohorts return in YOU MIGHT AS WELL DIE, available in December 2011.