Monday, April 30, 2007
Quick

Thirty-three candles

At least I didn’t give my panties to a geek

By Caren West

Unlike Samantha Baker in “Sixteen Candles,” Caren doesn’t mind being surrounded by her family for her birthday.. CREDIT: Courtesy of Channel Productions

I can’t believe it’s already the end of April, which also marks the arrival of my 33rd birthday. I’m feeling a little bit like, Samantha Baker, Molly Ringwald’s character in “Sixteen Candles,” because I’ve built up turning 33 as an important milestone—I’ve always looked forward to it. I can’t put my finger on why, other than I truly believe that great things will happen in my double-three year.

Yes, I fully realize that I’m not in high school. And that I don’t possess red hair. And I’m not looking for love in all the wrong places (or am I?). But à la Sam in her fantastically ’80s outfit, I stood in front of the mirror and took a long, hard look at myself. Much like her, I discovered that there weren’t any significant changes. One year older and my boobs aren’t any bigger, I still have a dark freckle on my upper lip and my front tooth still has a chip due to a mock kung-fu fighting incident in 1996.

Sadly, my mailbox didn’t contain a letter from a long-lost relative informing me of a secret billion-dollar trust fund with directions to meet a helicopter that was en route to a small island in the South Pacific named after me. Nope. Turns out I’m still the same Caren, just older, busier and a bit more mental.

I walked out of the door of my Inman Park apartment singing OK Go’s “Get Over It” in my head. I looked around. Jake Ryan definitely wasn’t waiting for me, leaning on a red Porsche wrapped in a big bow. I could envision every detail of my imaginary movie moment. He’d throw me the keys and I’d laugh hysterically in that carefree-teen way and toss my trusty laptop out the window as we drove away.

So the universe didn’t hand-deliver Jake Ryan to my doorstep. That’s OK. But it could’ve made up for the oversight by providing a parade complete with giant balloons, piñatas stuffed with Tiffany jewelry and hot men slathered in baby oil pole-dancing around the lampposts on North Highland Avenue. Not the case. The only thing that greeted me was the sound of crickets.

But I refused to let my reality get me down. My Flintstones Complete multivitamin suddenly kicked in and I felt a rush of excitement as I drove by the loft that I’m in the process of buying. (Much like a stalker ex-girlfriend, I drive by my loft every single day.) Although the brand-new Old Fourth Ward loft community is still under construction and I always get stuck behind a tractor of some sort when I cruise by, it makes me happy—if only for an instant. I simultaneously evaluate its progress and plan my first loft-warming soiree.

With an awards ceremony on the books for one night, a small birthday gathering with good friends the next and a mystery-adventure planned for me the day after that, I started to think about the happy in “Happy Birthday.” Even though the past year has been filled with plenty of joyful occasions, it was also one of the more difficult times in my life.

Don’t worry; I won’t bore you with sob stories. Everyone experiences rough patches. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m also a gal who continues to struggle with severe depression (shocker, I know) and much too often, in spite of my best intentions and all the wonderful things going on around me, I sometimes lose sight of what it is to be happy and hopeful. Changing this dynamic is one of the things I wish for every year when I blow out my birthday candles.

And although I didn’t realize it when I took that long, hard look at myself in the mirror, maybe turning 33 will bring a more practical perspective about what is truly important in life and what constitutes happiness: my loving family and tried-and-true friends—not to mention the thought of owning a loft that has a functioning washer and dryer.

Of course, I wouldn’t turn down a mob of hot men bearing expensive birthday gifts, a small island or secret trust fund, but I’m content in the knowledge of how very lucky I am to dive into another year, surrounded by a group of individuals who all share the same unshakeable spirit and belief that anything is possible—no matter how old you are.

That, my friends, is the best birthday gift of all.

When not attending Atlanta's hottest parties, tracking down celebs or shopping for shoes, Caren West runs her own PR firm. E-mail her at carenwest@sundaypaper.com.