Before I share the details of my (amazing) 30th birthday, I feel like you should understand how horrible my last big milestone birthday was:
My 25th birthday was on a Friday. I was in a show called Wonder of the World and it was the worst theatrical experience of my life. The director was a jerk and thought he was God’s gift to the stage. The show itself was just bad, from the script to the interpretation of it. The main plotline involved a woman who left her husband because she discovers that he swallows Barbie doll heads and…er…passes them for sexual pleasure. It was a really bad show. But that was a time in my life when I was such a stage hog that I couldn’t say no to any part. Oh how I learned my lesson!
I digress. I was in a horrible show, and because of that, I didn’t have time for birthday dinner with family or friends, I had to head to the theater right after work (I should mention that Mom, Dad and Amy did surprise me for lunch though). My boyfriend at the time actually forgot it was my birthday. I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and Australia didn’t seem like far enough to run away.
After the performance that night, I didn’t want to go home alone, and I didn’t want to go out with the cast. So I picked up my dirty laundry and headed to the Wash Depot to spend a couple hours reading to the rhythm of the industrial sized washers and dryers. I got there around 11pm and made myself comfortable on the only couch in the laundromat, the rest of the chairs were cold and hard and plastic. My dear friend Josh called to wish me a happy birthday and we chatted for a while, which definitely helped my mood. When I got off the phone, I snuggled into the poofy couch and poured my attention into the chapter I was reading…and that’s when my day went from bad to worse. The automatic doors swooshed open and in walked an ill-tempered woman with her five children (all under the age of six). She pointed directly at the couch where I was sitting (despite the fact that there were at least 60 vacant seats) and told the kids to sit there “and don’t move.” So they did. All five of them squeezed on the couch next to me. Thinking that surely, as soon as she realized that they were invading my space she would ask them to move, I held my ground.
And then I smelled it.
The littlest of the five, who just happened to be practically sitting in my lap, was wearing a dirty diaper. And when I say dirty, I don’t just mean wet. I mean dirty.
At 25 years old, I thought I’d be married with a career and children on the way and living the American dream and instead I was sulking in a laundromat in the middle of the night with someone else’s kid’s crap in my lap. This was my life.
Flash forward five years to the Best Birthday EVER!