It’d be safe to say that nearly everyone else I know (even those acquaintances you didn’t think actually knew you – I blame the ever omniscient Facebook) seems to know when my birthday is except me.
It’s a good thing; it means one less thing for me to remember. More room in the brain for things like, say, accounting caca come exams. It works out fabulously.
I find it such a vain thing to indulge in birthdays. We celebrate our existence everyday – or should, rather; too many people simply go about their daily lives without ambitions or excitement when they should be living. I love Monday mornings. I love Wednesdays. Tuesday nights. Lazy Sunday afternoons, just in time for brunch. Birthdays have lost their charm for me around high school – who am I to parade around in a tiara*?
Humor me. I love a little more attention as much as the next human being, but to claim an entire day for me, myself, and I? I’m hardly deserving of it. It’s not to say I won’t appreciate the extra effort someone puts out for me on the big B-Day. I just don’t deserve it.
BUT here’s the catch. There always is a but clause. This is the year I shed the horrible -teen suffix. One year makes all the difference; with 20 comes more credibility and respect. I refuse to believe that wisdom comes with age (nothing is ever so black and white), but society always will; the youth are undermined, overlooked. Sometimes for good reason, but more often than not, not.
Here is a fond good-bye to the era of the teens. No tears, nothing bittersweet. You showed me a good time, you taught me well. I lived, learned, and danced my way through to this day, now. Open arms to welcome the big two-oh. With the best of girlfriends, and dressed to kill.
Here’s to the last few days of nineteen.
. . .
*If a diamond one, however, I should hardly object.