You Say It's Your Birthday

And what a fabulous birthday it's been.

Therein lies the problem with writing; it's very difficult to convey sarcasm via text. I realize that my days of piniatas and birthday cake are over, but I don't think that just because I'm over the age of eleven I should forget about my birthday all together. Or perhaps I should; that way, it's not as big of a disappointment when it sucks. Last year on my birthday I was about eight weeks pregnant and I ate oatmeal for dinner. This morning my hair salon called to say that I'd have to see someone other than my regular stylist tomorrow because my stylist was in labor...and it's her birthday too. So I suppose my birthday could be worse.

Why have I had such a bad birthday? It's been just like any other day. I've been home all day with an angry baby, annoying dogs, and a pile of papers that gets bigger every time I look away. As children, our parents teach us that our birthday is our very own special day, and for that day, we can do whatever we want (stay up late, eat ice cream for dinner) and no one can say boo about it. Once we reach adulthood, however, birthdays get ignored, forgotten about, or just plain avoided so that we may avoid the fact that we're getting older. Our cultural preoccupation with staying young (and more importantly, looking young) has led to the annihilation of the adult birthday celebration.

I'm not saying that I need a huge party (I'd prefer not, actually), or a piniata, or even a birthday cake. All I want is a day that's a little different than all the rest.