Happy birthday to me.
A wonderful three-martini and duck à l'orange dinner on the town with my honey and dear friends.
Kicking back and listening to the 1957 Julie London album I bought from the used-record bins earlier in the day.
No, it wasn't exactly akin to Don Draper's surprise party on Mad Men tonight, with the big crowd of people, hepcats smoking weed on the balcony and the ooh la la burlesque en français. If it were, I'd probably end up, at age 51, having a heart attack just like Roger Sterling did a couple of seasons back.
And -- as the paramedics loaded me into the rescue squad -- I'd be thinking "Well, that was stupid. And I don't even like slutty French burlesque."
No, I'm a quiet roast duck and martinis kind of guy, content to spend the evening with friends and with my new wife . . . of almost 29 years. (No, seriously, I don't think the woman ages. Let's see Draper's trophy wife in 1994, eh?.) That suits me -- just like the '50s jazz on the old record player.
And I don't have to worry whether the rescue squad will let me take my martini to the hospital in a go cup.