The Universe’s Way of Telling Me I’m Too Old to Care About My Birthday

I love birthdays. I love them a lot – especially mine. I start counting down the days months before the actual date. I’m known for this – so much so that my last boss actually made me a calendar that counts down the months to my birthday. My thinking is: if you don’t make your birthday special no one else will.

For instance, I won’t go to great lengths for another person’s birthday unless they act like they want something to happen. I respect very much the I-don’t-care-about-my-birthday-stance. It’s not worth my effort getting worked up about something you could care less about.

But my birthday, well, I love it. I love that the day is all about me. I love the surprises. I love the random beautiful cards more than the gifts (though I do love those as well). I love the phone calls and e-mails and facebook and gchat shout outs. I love being remembered.

Wes has been great about making all of my birthdays with him memorable. Even last year was awesome, though it wasn’t a lot of planning since we were some place we had to be. But diving off of Catalina? Well, there are worse things that could happen on one’s birthday.

This year, though, Wes might be out of town on the actual day. Which means I might be friendless and alone on my birthday. And for someone who loves loves loves her birthday, this is depressing indeed. He’s checking the schedule and perhaps there will be a possibility of switching with someone so that he doesn’t have to go. But this all leaves me wondering if maybe 27 isn’t too old to be getting excited about one’s birthday?

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Filed under Beach Living, Fleeing blah, Me

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