So my birthday has come and gone. I feel older this year. I usually don’t “feel” older after a birthday, but I actually lost my balance a little in my hallway this evening and I find myself forgetting stuff that’s trivial, yet things that I should remember…maybe I should start making a to-do list? I even forget to do that. Is it wet brain? God I hope not, and I don’t think so.
So we hired a clown for the party. I had hoped the clown would wear makeup, but when my boyfriend texted him to confirm his appearance for that evening and asked if he could wear makeup…he wrote back, “I don’t wear makeup, I’m allergic.” I thought one of two things:
How sad. It’s like a girl who’s as flat as a board wanting to be a stripper, but her body would reject the implants. It’s like a cowboy who is allergic to horses…A clown allergic to makeup…is that really considered a clown? Or just a guy wearing a weird outfit.
He was doing a party for adults why the hell would he want to put makeup on for us?
The real answer does not matter anymore I suppose. Everyone still had a great time. He made an entrance with a bubble machine. He did some juggling, made some jumbo bubbles and even made a jumbo bubble with me standing IN it. (see pic above). He made some balloon hats and then played the eukele. He was told to treat handle the party as if it were for children, and he did. Am I still bothered to a degree that he did not wear clown makeup…a little, but I can still say I had a clown at my birthday party. We had pizza and cupcakes and I had entirely way too much sugar and annoyed everyone. Then like a child I about passed out, exhausted, after the sugar crash came.
“What did you do for your birthday?” a girl at work asked me.
“Oh I had a clown come to my friend’s apartment and do some magic tricks and stuff.”
Yes I am a little, and I’m okay with that.
A clown without makeup is like Beverly Hills without the 90210.