I certainly didn’t plan to celebrate my thirty-fifth birthday wearing body glitter.

And yet, here I am. Reluctantly shimmering.

“Stay still,” Bridget demands. Holding my chin, she shifts my face toward the flickering bathroom light and presses what’s basically a ­glitter-covered glue stick to my temple.

Years ago, preparing for my first official day of work as an accountant, I visited the makeup counter at the mall, where a woman named Cheryl with the sharpest eyebrows I’d ever seen told me that I was an autumn. She suggested berry shades to complement my dark hair and olive complexion, and the next day I strutted into the office wearing a lip color called “moody fig,” which I’ve worn every day since.

Something tells me Cheryl wouldn’t approve of Barbie pink chunks of glitter, for any occasion at all, ever, on anyone. I say as much to Bridget.

“Trust me,” she says. “You need something to brighten you up. It’s Saturday night! It’s your birthday! And you look like a disgruntled Ann Taylor employee.”

“I look fine,” I argue. I’m wearing my favorite silk tank with my go-to black heels and perfectly nice black trousers, thankyouverymuch.

Bridget adds one last swipe of sparkles before admiring her handiwork. “Don’t worry,” she assures me with a nod, her blond ponytail bobbing like she’s still leading cheers on the sidelines. “It’s waterproof.”

Perfect.