Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me, Indeed
Well, it's that time of year again. The day when we celebrate that great day 29 years ago when I fell out of a vagina (hi, Mom!), was washed, swabbed, and swaddled, and then forced into the arms of strangers to be patted and photographed. We pay homage to my arrival by eating cake, which has absolutely nothing to do with squeezing your way down a birth canal. If birth were like birthdays, babies would be frosted and then lit on fire while people stood around and sang while wearing pointed hats. Which, let's face it, is just a bit weird.
Birthdays are supposed to be a time of celebration. And yet I somehow always manage to stress myself out by expecting too much, or feeling too old, or getting too drunk. I start to ponder what I'll be doing in a year and how old I'll be and how I'll feel about it. Inevitably, I end the day upset with myself for wasting the day thinking too much. So, this year, I'm taking it easy in an attempt to not worry any more than what is necessary.
Therefore, I'm sitting here today in my living room with my feet up. I watched reruns of The Golden Girls, went for a swim, got a giant iced coffee, and plan to eat cupcakes and have cocktails later with all my friends of super awesomeness. Mostly I just want to have a better birthday than I did last year. Won't you let me tell you about it? Won't you?
Last year, at 12 midnight when I looked at the clock and saw that my birthday was officially over, I was at my ex-boyfriend's apartment. The evening had started out pleasant enough. We had dinner. And then I suggested that we get a bottle of wine, hang out, and watch a movie or something. What happened instead was that my ex attempted to drink the entire bottle of wine himself, put on a Beastie Boys DVD, watched it while he ignored me, and finally passed out at about 10.
So I sat up alone watching reruns of Home Improvement with myself and wondering what the hell I was doing there to begin with. Who spends her birthday with an ex-boyfriend who makes her miserable? Apparently, I do.
And so, as Wilson was once again consoling Tim over some problem or another, I vowed that I would be happy and stress-free on my next birthday. Because birthdays are, after all, a time of celebration. Not because you fell out of a vagina at some point in history, but because you've done something since then.