Tomorrow, I’ll be 26. Er. 25+1.
I’m not really dreading it. In fact, I get super excited about birthdays. Well, not all birthdays. Just mine.
I don’t know why this is – I’ve sort of always been this way. And most people I know do not understand why I get this way.
You’d think, at my age, I would stop thinking about the date of my birth like it was some glittery, fairy-tale event with unicorns and sunshine. I mean, I didn’t even do any of the work. My mom did. (Although, I was born 3 months early. So maybe I did do some work after all.) But, no, I still get all giddy whenever I think about it (the celebration of the date, not the actual birth – ew) (but while we’re on the subject – parents: thanks, high fives, and all that). This includes but is not limited to: jumping, some sort of high pitched communication that possibly dogs can understand but other humans cannot, lots of smiles and random mentions or even outbursts of the word BIRTHDAY!
It’s not even about receiving gifts – they are most certainly nice and I do cherish them (and, friends, if you’d like to buy me a drink tomorrow – the most momentous of all occasions because WHAT? IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! YES IT IS! – I will let you. It’s the little things). I think it’s more about the fact that I’m still excited, even though it means that I am older. Because there may come a day when my birthday means nothing, or that I’m sad because it is my birthday and I’m 62 and I’ve accomplished zip and I have a pet dust bunny. You know what I mean? It’s about being loved. It’s nice to be loved. Or at least to fake that love, because you just can’t be mean to the birthday girl.
Unless… I’m a birthday woman?
..Still though. Be nice.