it's now my birthday. I friggin hate my birthday.

In youth, birthdays are a magical celebration of you and all your friends are super happy because it means you can all have sugar cake and the world is spectacular because you're in it.

The more of them accumulate, the more they stand out as a passage of time in which you didn't accomplish what you thought you would. They are a reminder that you're getting too old for this shit. They are mile markers on your life journey, where you pause and recognize that you aren't where you thought you'd be. You aren't living the life, at the top of your game, in that career you always wanted and were certain you'd love. You aren't married. You aren't seeing anyone. You are childless. You don't like people, so your friends are few and far between; they live thousands of miles apart, so there will be no parties. If you want cake, you must procure it yourself.

I work with a younger set of women, who were in college a short time ago. They enjoy celebration and ridiculousness and making a big deal out of little things. I only told them it was my birthday once, so I hope they don't show up expecting me to wear a pointy hat and a sash and wave around a magic wand (seriously. They have all of these things). I might bring donut holes, so there's something sweet, but I don't like my birthdays.

Advertisement

I don't like being reminded of all the things I thought I would have by now, but don't. I don't like being reminded how I've let another year slip by without achieving anything. So I will hug my dog, have a cold glass of wine in a hot bath, and probably nerd out with the monster (12-hour) Lord of the Rings marathon, since someone had to go and mention Karl Urban today.

Advertisement

Yeah. I'll nerd out and try not to feel ashamed. I need to find myself a bigger bottle of wine.

Also I have no idea why you would want to mainpage this, but please don't.