This is my friend Mickey. His real name is Mike, obviously, but when I met him, all the guys in his band called him Mickey. I stuck with Mike for years but a combination of knowing far too many men with that name, plus my ever-growing fondness for the boy eventually drew me to the dark side. Now he’s just Mickey.
Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine, you blow my mind, Hey Mickey! (giggle)
It’s Mickey’s birthday today, and he’s been celebrating all weekend. We spent my last birthday together too. And we drank on his prior birthday. And we caroused on my previous milestone birthday. Hmmm, we seem to be sliding into a day of birth habit, don’t we?
We’ve been friends for years, much to the confusion of some around us. He consoled me through a bad affair, and I saw him through his divorce. His friends used to tease him about me – until I told them in no uncertain terms to knock it off, that is. (All men are little boys at heart, and there’s nothing like the stern voice of a woman reminding them subconsiously of their mother’s chastizement to keep them in line!). So we stay out until 5am, we laugh, we do silly things, we lament getting older, we talk about which girls are hot, and which guys are buttheads. That’s what friends do.
Happy Birthday Mickey!!