Because, you know, generally here, on this blog, we talk about other people and things. Other than myself. And the small bubble that is my life. I am just an insignificant piece in the puzzle of life. Or whatever. Oh please. Who am I kidding? We have blogs to talk about ourselves. So let's get to it.
My birthday is coming. Feb. 4. Usually I make a big to do about my birthday because
I like attention birthdays are important. I've been known to celebrate an entire week in its honor. Selfish? No. "Celebratory."
But this year I've hardly realized it's coming. No counting down. No party planning. In fact, I have to cover a common council meeting that night. Nothing says birthday like agenda items.
I find that I'm disturbingly OK with this, which tells me only one thing: I'm growing up. Sick.
Don't get me wrong, 26 is no 35, but it's also no 22. I'm taking strides, people.
I'm not sure at what point I became bored with the concept of a birthday, because I certainly know it wasn't last year. Turning 25 was monumental. You know, in anticipation of a quarter-life crisis, and all.
P.S. I had one.
But now 26 just feels boring. What do we do at 26? Take one step closer to 50? And what does one do with a birthday that falls on a Monday? With work all day and a common council meeting all night, it's bound to be hot. Guaranteed.
Generally I anticipate gifts. And don't pretend it's selfish of me to say that out loud. Like you don't enjoy things handed to you in a bow. But this year I couldn't even tell you one tangible thing I want. I've already spent "birthday money" on running shoes, which is about as neat as getting socks for Christmas, but you've got to do what you've got to do.
Sometimes I wish I was turning 22 again. When it's acceptable for bartenders to pour shots of Pucker down your throat, or to run around a bar wearing a button that flashes "birthday girl!"
But something tells me I'd be out of commission in an hour, and on the bathroom floor by midnight, brushing hair out of my face as I stare at toilet water, crying because, "I'm just so happy it's my birth... hiccup... day," or professing my love to inanimate objects.
Not that, you know, that's happened.
Birthdays have just lost their luster. It's kind of a shame. Because I haven't puked in a while.