My birthday is one week from today. I don’t particularly want to have this birthday. It’s not like I’m old (yet). I’m only turning twenty-three, but twenty-three is almost twenty-five which is half way to thirty which all just makes me feel like I’m getting old.
Besides, twenty-three is a pointless birthday. Thirteen, Sixteen, Eighteen, Twenty-One, those are exciting birthdays, but Twenty-Three…pointless.
I shouldn’t complain, but I’m going to anyway. I hate telling people what I want for my birthday. I can never think of anything. When I do think of things they are either lame little things that no one wants to buy me (gee, Victoria wants another book, go figure), or else they are way more than I would want/expect anyone to spend. I always just tell people I’m not picky (oh but I am), and I’ll love whatever you get me (or else I’ll hint around and find out where you bought it so I can exchange).
In reality I love my birthday. It is usually wonderful weather, the grass is greening, the flowers are budding, and I always spend the day with my mom (just me and her) which is nice. We shop, go to the movies, have lunch, and then join family and friends for dinner somewhere.
*This will be my second birthday without my grandma there. Last year was hard; I fully expect every birthday, every Christmas, every holiday from now on to be hard without her. The week before my twenty-first birthday I had told everyone that I was not going to have my birthday until my grandma could come home. She had been in the hospital for over a month (her leg was amputated – complications with diabetes). It was the week of my birthday, and she was expected to come home sometime around the 29th, but they weren’t 100%. I told my grandma that I couldn’t have a birthday without her, and so either she was coming home, the cake was coming to the hospital (great idea in the diabetic wing of the hospital by the way), or else I was just postponing my entire birthday – I would refuse to turn twenty-one until she came home. Well, she came home on my birthday, and my entire extended family was at my house to welcome her and to wish me a happy twenty-first. That was the last birthday I spent with my grandma. She passed away that July. Last year I didn’t want to bother with a birthday, because she wasn’t around to enjoy it with us (We"celebrated" anyways, but it wasn’t the same, nothing like a birthday where the birthday girl keeps breaking out in tears). My grandma was one of my best friends. I loved her very much, and well maybe her absence is part of why I don’t feel like turning 23.