Birthdays

When you pass your 21st birthday, those to follow all seem to turn into one of those "another year older, another year wiser" type of scenarios. What used to be a day of pin the tail on the donkey, a pizza party/trip to the batting cages with a group of your buddies and a reasonable cake to candles ratio is now replaced by vodka soda dates with some of your closest friends. It's just as well as far as I'm concerned and in some ways things feel more meaningful (partly due to the fact that now those around you volunteer as opposed to receiving one of those obligatory invitations in the mail). In case you were wondering, yes, I am working on my birthday (one of the harshest truths of the "real world").

Two weeks ago, in a discussion regarding calendar appointments, it casually emerged to Ms. Wilkes that on the 24th I would be celebrating my 25th birthday (I was able to quickly sneak it in after a brief mention of a 2pm doctor's appointment on the same day). Then. Something out of left field. Ms. Wilkes suddenly began talking about her favorite subject. Herself.

"When I was twenty five...when I was twenty five...where was I when I was twenty five...ah yes! I was manager of my first Broadway theater production! Ahhh, it was rare for a female in those times to hold such a position. Make a reservation for two at Shun Lee, tonight, 7pm."

If I didn't know my place and this were any other individual, my mouth would have be agap at that very moment, but since I value my job, my pride and my testicles, I diligently made the reservation and left it at that.

FLASH FORWARD

INT. BEDROOM -- NIGHT

As I lay in bed (birthday eve) indulging in a phone conversation with my girlfriend, we began nonchalantly tossing around ideas of what Ms. Wilkes would say or do when I walked into the office the next day. The following is our (very) shortlist of possibilities:

1.) She would give me a raise (I'm pretty sure this was meant to be comical)
2.) I would be wished a happy birthday and given a pat on the back.
3.) There would be a cake and/or cupcakes (preferably the later).
4.) I'd be presented with a gift of some sort in customary birthday fashion.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE -- PRESENT DAY

I gripped my key, inserting it into the lock of the front door, anticipating streamers, confetti and a tray full of Crumbs cupcakes and/or a Strawberry Shortcake from Magnolia Bakery.

THE DOOR OPENED.

Silence. Then the sound of Ms. Wilkes sending a job to the printer. The printer printing the job. The printer finishing the job. Then more silence.

I found it odd that I wasn't even greeted with the typical "good morning" or "howdy". Even a "hey" would have sufficed. But. Abso-lutely. Nothing. I sat. Waited. Did a little "clearing of the throat" action. Still. Nothing.

I have now been here for almost three hours. We have engaged in conversation numerous times and it is apparent to me that she has indeed...forgotten. Now I'm not one of those sensitive "don't kill the whales, plant a tree" type of guys. I eat meat and potatoes just like the rest of us. I can take orders on a daily basis, I can withstand tirades of verbal abuse, but one thing that just hits me with a low blow is a woman who I have worked beside for over eight months not remembering a birthday that I had recently told her about.

Two. Words.

That is all that needed to come out of her mouth.

Unfortunately, this is simply a personal matter. On the business front the check came in last week (3 days late albeit), I haven't had any instances of severe physical abuse just yet, and I've never been denied an hour lunch. So what does one make of all this? I can only surmise that this woman who I spend my weekdays is soulless. To fellow creative assistants everywhere, "why do we continue to go through our days like this?" It may only be a farfetched wish that one day soon we will all stand up, join together and give our respective producers a big old, "Fuck You". Yes. That would indeed be the greatest birthday gift of all.