I may or may not have spent my birthday dinner at a Medieval Times (“Dinner and Tournament!”) eating chicken legs with my fingers and wearing a paper crown that barely squeezed over my head. It was amazing. There were long-haired horses and sequined wizards and pina coladas served in glow-in-the-dark challices.
I may or may not have considered buying a commemorative place mat.
I may or may not have greedily reached directly into the path of a 10-year-old girl named Kaytlyn while attempting to grab a pink carnation mid-air shortly after it was thrown into the crowds by The Green Knight, who was, clearly, aiming that carnation in my direction. After all, it was my birthday. Okay it was her birthday too but I’m 23 years her senior which means I have 23 less years to catch pink carnations from guys on saddles. So don’t act like I didn’t have it coming, KAYTLYN.
Because it was my birthday (and if that isn’t a good excuse to eat crap, I don’t know what is) I decided to shelf any health-conscious food choices for a couple of days. Okay maybe it was four days. Ease up.
I had been looking forward to a scoop of fried ice cream from my favorite Mexican restaurant for months but it paled in comparison to the pastries and treats that paraded into my life this weekend. Using my new-found-carefree-33-year-old sense of abandonment, I happily drove a fork into each one of them.
It was Heaven. It was gluttonous. It was the rumspringa of dessert.
Now it’s Monday. The glow has worn off and all I want is an Alkaseltzer and a bucket of raw vegetables.
Hello salad bar.
*** For anyone (like me) who gets annoyed by people posting a excessive instagram photos of food (like me), you should read this sometime.