He forgot it was my birthday. I don’t feel like reminding him, either. And that is how I end up turning twenty-five. During the two years that we dated, he gave me a gift to celebrate every occasion—my birthday, the anniversary of the day he bought a dress shirt from me at the department store where I worked, the anniversary of our first date. If I told him it’s my birthday, he would buy me a gaudy printed scarf or an African-style necklace. That’s the kind of girl he likes.
chronic ted mosby syndrome
