I spent the week really looking forward to my birthday (yesterday.) The Mathematician and I were planning to go to Newport, the site of our first date, and sort of recreate it by going to all the places we went that day. Then his gout flared up, so we made a back-up plan to get facials, massage, a pedicure and later dinner at Uni. When I woke up the weather was beautiful, a perfect day to celebrate a birthday. Maybe I'd find time to buy myself a little birthday treat while we were on Newbury Street for our spa day.
I awoke at 9 a.m. and scurried off to yoga. I was feeling a little off, but assumed this was owing to the fact that I got bombed at Eastern Standard the day before while researching our assignment for the Weekly Dig's upcoming 5-Drink Minimum issue. Not so. About 5 minutes into class with my favorite teacher I started to feel weird and out of sorts, and the first time we transitioned from forward bend to tadasana I really almost fainted. I spent the entire half the class in child's pose or lying on my back on the floor. When I got home the Mathematician felt my forehead and I burning up with a fever. [NOTE: Hot yoga and fever do not mix.]
I napped for a few hours and still went to the spa, which was fabulous. We canceled dinner and spent the evening watching Entourage and eating pizza and cupcakes and lots of Advil.
Some people say that every two hours of your birthday represent how the subsequent months of your year will be spent. If that's true, I'll be spending months 1 - 5 sleeping off a hangover, month 6 feeling like I'm about to pass out in yoga, month 7 alternating between sleep and eating saltines in bed, month 8-9 getting pampered, months 10-12 watching HBO shows on the couch and eating pizza and cupcakes, with a few mini naps here and there.
A very unceremonious start to the last year of my twenties. But I still had a really nice time with the Mathematician.