Monday, October 05, 2015

So this year I thought I would make you a present out of my own head

Whenever I see a Pajero, I see two hopeful friends engaging a four-wheel-drive for the first time, at short notice, on a soft-sand beach we were not supposed to be driving on. Following the fortunes of six fictional Friends, and trying to decide which of us was which. Walking through strange clubs in search of a Friday night. Crashing parties we were not invited to and getting in every photo on principle. After messy nights out, I made sure to drop you home first and watched you enter your door before moving on, and then I watched you turn into one of the best moms I know. You grew up way faster than I did. You became a star, and stayed one.

I see a group of friends rallying loyally, no matter what. I hear honest opinions, yours tactfully phrased, mine not so much. I hear a lot of laughter, mocking mere time and space and the very concept of goodbye. We’ve cried for every little thing, happy and sad, but shed no tears at the big stuff, just tossed off our wine in a purposeful toast, and got on with it.

So we kissed some frogs who turned out to be just frogs. And took the occasional wrong exit in our careers, and had to make u-turns. We made some fashion choices along the way that will forever haunt us on Facebook. We did things to our hair that our best friends would have advised against – if we weren’t all such enthusiastic lemmings.

The time-lapse video would show Bacardi-coke (Diet for you, Regular for me) turn to coloured cocktails and lethal shots, and then distil into wine. A procession of Mango and Zara and hair products (straighteners for you and curly ones for me), and then all of it again, but this time pushing strollers. A hundred relationships joining, parting, coming back together, binding in the warmth of a Dubai night. A few more lethal shots. And a big woohoo.

The YouTube tribute would be a pageant of enthusiasm, generosity, sensitivity, and strength, crowned with bling and anointed with perfume. We’ve cut many birthday cakes, blown out too many candles to count, but you are forever 22, and I am always 28.

-End of birthday present-

(Really? You prefer the kind that comes in boxes? Sure, it's in the mail. I totally remembered to courier it.)

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