Remember being seven? There were two days a year you couldn't wait for. Two days a year when you couldn't sleep for the excitement, when you woke in the wee gray hours of morning. lying in bed and waiting to hear mom or dad get up so that you could finally FINALLY get out of bed and open your presents. Two days so beloved and meaningful that expectations are set for them for our entire adult lives; that traumas or disappointments suffered on them forever mar our psyche. One I blogged about yesterday. Apparently I'm still going strong for Christmas. The other, however, has been officially tagged as No Longer Important or Meaningful. Guess which day it is?
Or rather, which day it isn't? Because I'm no longer having birthdays. I have an unbirthday tomorrow on which, were it to be happening (but its not) I would be turning another year older. Getting older no longer holds the mystery and thrill it held when I was seven. When I was seven, I couldn't wait to be thirteen. Sixteen. Twenty one. A Grownup. Birthdays were wonder-filled days when we inched ever closer to the magic of Being Older. When we got older we would be able to walk to the store on our own. Get an allowance. Date. Wear Makeup. Pierce our ears. Drive. Drink. So much to look forward to. We were lulled in to loving our birthdays by all the things they promised to bring us. What we didn't understand then is that someday birthdays would no longer bring us wonderful suprises. There will still be surprises...but they won't be pleasant. Wrinkles. Gray hair. Aches and Pains. Age spots. Deteriorating eyesight and hearing.
Birthday, dear old friend of mine, I wish you a fond farewell. We are officially Broken Up. Don't call me again.
