The Problem With Birthdays (Specifically, Mine)

When I was younger, I loved my birthday with a passion that only a little kid could have. Being an only child, the world naturally revolved around me, and I was determined that I was so special, that my birthday was mine alone.

I never really had extravagant parties (I only had one actual birthday party, when I turned 10), and my parents didn't buy me any ponies (real or metaphorical), but I always loved my birthday.

Then, the day before I turned 12, my dad got a call. I remember it, not with much clarity, but I was sitting in the maroon 'pleather' chair in the living room, still in my pajamas. I knew before I was told, though I don't remember how. We were moving. In all fairness, I didn't grieve moving until some time later, though I think that had much to do with the fact that I had to be happy, because my two closest friends were coming over to spend the night.

My 18th birthday was spent at my dying Grandmother's bedside. I don't regret it for a moment, because it was the last time that I saw her where she was really 'lucid'. She couldn't really talk anymore, but she was still awake, and you could still communicate with her. By the time I saw her again, just two weeks later, she was comatose. (I would never wish Lou Gherig's on anyone.)

My 20th birthday was somewhat somber, because I spent it with Matt's family. I wanted the family to overlook my birthday, to forget that I existed. I was homesick, terribly homesick.

Then there was number 21. I was about to begin making myself my birthday cake (yes, I have to make my own these days if I want anything yummy), when I got a phone call from my mom. "Why does bad stuff always happen around your birthday?"
My dad had been laid off after 22 years with that good for nothing IBM.

Suffice to say, I don't bother trying to look forward to my birthday much anymore, or if I do, it comes with a heavy dose of leeriness. My birthday isn't even mine anymore, since I share it with my father-in-law.

It's not that I dread the thought of getting older - I'm too young for that still. I just dread my birthday with the same fervor that a highly superstitious person avoids cracks on friday the 13th.

...But yet, I can't help but want to celebrate it. After all, it's still the one day I technically have a right to stake my claim on.

Right now, the plan is to get up early, go out for breakfast, then come home, pack ourselves a lunch, and then go out and take pictures. (Matt's taking the day off) However, it's looking more and more likely that I'm going to need a backup plan, because mother nature seems poised to screw me over. It went from 71 and few showers, to 67 and few showers, to 67 and scattered t-storms. Great.

Maybe next year I should just skip the whole 'birthday' thing anyway. Once you're over 21, no one cares anyway.