The Path of Thursday's Child

My birthday was a smashing success, I think. Went to a bar that made extremely weak drinks (which on one hand meant they were delicious, but on the other meant that I didn’t get anywhere near intoxicated off of them) and did a little bowling (and we were all horrible, which is the most fun sort of group to bowl with). One friend from high school, two friends from college, two friends who are technically post-college though really should have been during college due to proximity, one coworker, and me. The recent ex-boyfriend made some excuses and didn’t show up. Whatever. Received lovely text messages throughout the day wishing me well.

I took the day off from work on Friday, in anticipation of a wicked hangover that didn’t happen. I did nothing for the first half of the day, and then spent the second half of the day being a drama queen.

I got a birthday present in the mail. I had to walk to the post office to get it. Upon receiving it, I saw that the return address was that of my ex-boyfriend (the original ex-boyfriend, not the one who stood me up on my birthday). I opened it right outside the post office, and I cried the whole way home. He bought me a CD of an artist he thought I might like (Feist, whom I know nothing about, but I made the decision as soon as I removed the CD from the envelope that I would adore it) and included a card filled with kindness. I would normally say that I melted into a puddle, but it was quicker than that. I sublimated. I was dry ice on a spoon, screaming while dying away.

I don’t regret breaking up with him (I feel the need to make that clear in case any of our mutual friends are reading this and get some brilliant idea to try to shove us back together). But I miss him terribly. He was a major part of my life for a long period of time, and suddenly he isn’t. I want him to be my best friend again. And I cried because I’m still not sure if I should give up hope of that or not. And because I know that I hurt him by breaking up with him. And because I hurt myself, and I didn’t really allow time to heal from that.

Maybe I haven’t fully.

Maybe I don’t want to.

I was supposed to go to a theatre benefit on Friday night, but I put on pajamas and curled up on my bed with Bridget Jones instead (the sequel, “The Edge of Reason”, which I bought from a used book store last weekend). Ah, Bridget, you’re the only one who knows what my world is like. Except your life is so much more interesting than mine. I’ve never been to Thailand. Or in jail. And I don’t have a rich, handsome, brilliant boyfriend who will do the following when I need it:

“It’s all right,” said Mark, holding me tight, stroking my hair. “It’s all over. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”
(309; Man, I’m a loser. Citing works in my blog. I’m not in school anymore. No one cares.)

*sigh of jealousy*

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I would prefer to wear my light green fluffy bathrobe and live vicariously through a fictional character than go out into the world and risk more of the disasters that my own life surely holds.

Saturday night I did go out. I went to my friend Anna’s Halloween party. I was a "Formal Apology". I put on a black dress, glitzy jewelry, and high heels, put my hair into an updo, and affixed a sign to myself that read “I’m Sorry.” I stole the idea from a friend. I thought it was an elegant solution to the problem of how to look attractive without succumbing to “Sexy Halloween”. I was classy instead. Perfect choice.

After watching Ghostbusters 2 and playing drinking games (Do people still do that after college? Or just us?) using pomegranate juice (I was the only one with the juice… I march to my own drummer), we went to a bar. We saw my friend Mike’s band, The Villers, play a set. After mad chants from the crowd that they should play “Freebird”, they actually did. Completely impromptu. An audience member passed forward his PDA with the lyrics on it for the lead singer. My friend’s band? They’re total rockstars.

Tonight I’m met one of my high school friends, Amanda, for dinner in belated celebration of my birthday. I love that my birthday is lasting so long. It is, after all, my favorite time of the year.

I was excited to see that my birthday fell on a Thursday this year, as I was born on one. There’s a poem that describes what children are like according to the day of the week they were born (Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, etc.) According to that, Thursday’s child has far to go.

That’s a bit of a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it seems as though there’s a rocky road ahead. The journey will be long and challenging.

On the other hand, it suggests a bright future full of promise and hope. It may be a slow climb, but there will be success. The road may wind, but at least it will be interesting. There may be obstacles, but they will make the end more rewarding. Thursday’s child has far to go, but Thursday’s child will go far.

Having “far to go” also makes the path seem endless. There is no goal in sight. But I suppose that’s the way life should be. I believe that God has a plan for me, but I don’t think that the plan involves resting on my laurels. After every achievement, one must work to go further. I don’t want to be ruled by apathy. I will set goals for myself, even if they seem impossible. I am Thursday’s child, and I will go far. Yes, I was born on the right day of the week. (Although I’d probably think the same thing if I had been born Friday… look it up.)

I used to always quote, “What would you attempt to do if you knew you would not fail?”

My own answer to that being that I’d become Miss America, cure cancer, join Mensa, and win a Noble prize, a Pulitzer, a Golden Globe, an Oscar, an Emmy, a Tony, a Grammy, and a Matt Damon. I mean, as long as I’m not going to fail…

The idea behind the question, I think, is to show you what you really want in life. If you could do one thing (and only one, as opposed to my colorful list), what would you want that one thing to be? If you removed your fear of failure, what would you be able to accomplish?

Your answer to that question, whatever it may be, is the very thing that you should be fighting for with every fiber of your being (and any fear of failure should be vanquished by your passion).

I continually ponder this topic. Let's see... at the moment that I’m writing this, the thing I would attempt to do is... find someone to hug me tenderly like Mark Darcy and reassure me it's going to be okay.

Wait a second… That isn’t a goal. That’s… that’s a sign that something is wrong… Still emotional from Friday perhaps… Drat.

In play analysis, one must always dig up the root “want” of the character that drives every action, tactic, and smaller "want" throughout the play. Looks like it’s time for an excavation.

*Angela now goes off into a literal 20-minute daydream to soul search and find the root of why she wants someone to comfort her and what exactly she needs to suddenly become okay.*

*Okay, she’s back. And she has an answer. Don’t ask how she got there.*

What I really want is to be able to forgive myself for the things that I’ve failed to do. And I want the motivation, the strength, and the courage to do them all in the future.

And now I’m exhausted, so I’ll have to figure all of that stuff out another day.

May your path be a little winding, a bit cluttered, and exceedingly long.

~A~

P.S. I’d put money down that Bridget Jones was born on a Wednesday (look it up).

P.P.S. I have another quotation that I just remembered that seems wholly appropriate to tack onto this entry. It’s from a character named Sammy in the movie The Wedding Singer: “All I really want is for someone to hold me and tell me everything is gonna be alright.” See? It's a universal truth. Among fictional characters, anyway. And me.