|The face I make when I get the invite to his fancy birthday dinner|
To announce his party, he'll send a mass email with all the recipients bcc'd so I'll have no idea who else is going. Will I know anyone else there? Will I be banished to a far corner of the table forced to make small talk with his boring co-workers? Ugh! Will people be cool and kick in enough money to cover their food or will I have to overpay to compensate for the cheapskates? It sounds terrible all-around.
Saying I'll maybe swing by won't cut it because he needs to know an exact headcount to make the reservations. I have to give him an answer. And, if I don't go to his birthday dinner, I better show up at the designated bar after and buy him at least two drinks.
I can already tell you how the night will end. During the party, thanks to dozens of whiskey shots, he'll take it too far, getting drunk off his little ass. When the bars close is when the real mischief will start. He'll swing from a street sign. He'll smash a bottle in the street. He'll cry in front of a police officer. Right before he passes out on the sidewalk, he'll start assessing his life and how it doesn't measure up to his expectations. He thought he'd be married by now. He thought he'd own a home. He thought he'd have his shit together. But, he doesn't.
The worst thing I could do is blow it off entirely. I'd get a snippy text the next morning demanding to know where I was and why I didn't go. You wanna know what I did? I layed around in sweatpants and watched the Jersey Shore. And, it was more fun. The only way to get back on his good side is if I promise to take him out for dinner and drinks to celebrate the 29th year of his life later on in the week. That will placate him. For now. Until next year when we do it all over again.