Seven days to go till I turn 30
It turns out Aurora was at a friend's house all weekend - I assume that's why she didn't pick up her phone. She turned up at around 11pm with three of her cohorts in toe: one a gorgeous Glaswegian lesbian, one a pint-sized munchkin, and the other a media lawyer. Everything was, er, normal. There was no awkwardness, no extra distance. Instead, we drank, danced and yapped our way over the strains of the Brazilian band singing "Get on up" in Portuguese.
Mercifully, most of my friends turned up. Only Gemma demurred, based on the potentially spurious grounds that she had a sore throat. So did I, but then I suppose it was my party, so I couldn't very well have stayed at home.
Everyone wished me happy birthday. Though as I repeatedly pointed out, there were still eight days - now seven - to go. So I still had time to do all things I always wanted to do before I turned 30: get married, write a book, climb a mountain, deflower a virgin (well it could still happen)!
But I digress, All in, a pretty successful evening. Until I walked Aurora out. I told her of my insecurities, that I'd been feeling mellow all week, and that I was still concerned that I'd fucked up our friendship. "Are we cool?" I asked her. "We're cool," she said. I shook her hand. But she told me it would "take time" for things to get back to normal. I know, deep down, that it will. But I still kick myself every time I think about it. Why couldn't I keep my feelings to myself? I'd have probably met someone else and got over it. Now she's going away for a month and I don't quite know whether I should back off and give her time. Or if I should just plough on as though nothing had changed.
It turns out Aurora was at a friend's house all weekend - I assume that's why she didn't pick up her phone. She turned up at around 11pm with three of her cohorts in toe: one a gorgeous Glaswegian lesbian, one a pint-sized munchkin, and the other a media lawyer. Everything was, er, normal. There was no awkwardness, no extra distance. Instead, we drank, danced and yapped our way over the strains of the Brazilian band singing "Get on up" in Portuguese.
Mercifully, most of my friends turned up. Only Gemma demurred, based on the potentially spurious grounds that she had a sore throat. So did I, but then I suppose it was my party, so I couldn't very well have stayed at home.
Everyone wished me happy birthday. Though as I repeatedly pointed out, there were still eight days - now seven - to go. So I still had time to do all things I always wanted to do before I turned 30: get married, write a book, climb a mountain, deflower a virgin (well it could still happen)!
But I digress, All in, a pretty successful evening. Until I walked Aurora out. I told her of my insecurities, that I'd been feeling mellow all week, and that I was still concerned that I'd fucked up our friendship. "Are we cool?" I asked her. "We're cool," she said. I shook her hand. But she told me it would "take time" for things to get back to normal. I know, deep down, that it will. But I still kick myself every time I think about it. Why couldn't I keep my feelings to myself? I'd have probably met someone else and got over it. Now she's going away for a month and I don't quite know whether I should back off and give her time. Or if I should just plough on as though nothing had changed.
posted by David Cohen at 2:16 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home