Advent of My Birthday
I love birthdays…for other people.
I especially love birthdays for hubs and for Max, because it allows me to be a little extra and celebrate the heck out of them. I love for them to wake up to decorations, beautifully wrapped gifts, and a special breakfast. I love for them to choose exactly how they want to spend their birthdays.
I hate my birthday. It’s not what you think. It’s not about aging. I don’t really mind getting older. I mind looking older, but I don’t mind getting older. As an almost 43-year-old woman, I’m proud of what of the life I have created thus far. I have two college degrees. I have a great job that I really like. I have a wonderful family and a house that I love. I have a savings account and a retirement account and 529 plans for my kids. I exercise regularly. I eat lots of fiber. I pay attention to current events. I’m pretty accomplished. I think I would feel differently about again if, say, I was 43-years-old, living in my parents basement, and delivering for Domino’s. (I’m not judging. Really. I’m just explaining. There are definitely days when I dream of such little responsibility…no mortgage, no kids, no one asking me what’s for dinner…it sounds magical.)
I hate my birthday for three primary reasons:
My birthday is January 4. It always falls on or around the day people return to work after taking time off for the holidays. And by then, people are always dieting and trying to get their shit together. No one has time for my birthday exploits.
I want nothing more than being fussed over on my one and only special day of the year. I feel like everyone should read my mind and plan a fun-filled dream day, complete with all of my favorite things. I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. People are not mind-readers. I set myself up for disappointment every year by not explicitly stating my birthday expectations wishes.
My birthday is not just my birthday anymore. I have to share it with Luke. That means I have to be extra and celebrate the heck out of him now.
But, the times they are a-changin. I’m taking control. I’m righting the ship. I’m planning my own birthday extravaganza, complete with instructions for my family, outlining their roles and responsibilities.
Go, shorty
It's your birthday
We gon' party like it's your birthday
It begins with the Advent of my birthday. Remember when I wrote about the Advent of Christmas? The countdown to the birth of Baby Jesus? Well, let me introduce you to the countdown to the birth of Baby Kimberly. It begins on December 26 and continues through January 3. Each day, I will wake up to a perfectly curated gift that I have purchased for myself and wrapped. I will act surprised, as if I haven’t scoured the internet looking for just the right thing(s). Now, please know that I am not comparing myself to Jesus Christ. I can’t control whether you do. I guess it would all depend on how fulfilled your life is with me in it.
This brings us to the big day. The main event. The superest Super Bowl there ever was. My 43rd birthday (and Luke’s 3rd, but who cares about him. This is about me). On this day, there will be no 5:50am alarm to start my day with exercise. There will be sleep. When I finally rouse myself from slumber (at 6:40, when Max wakes up for school), I will tip toe downstairs to find balloons, streamers, a perfect cup of coffee, and donuts. My family will tell me how beautiful I look in my pajamas and acne cream, with hair that will undoubtedly be in need of shampoo. They will laugh at all of my jokes. They will tell me how lucky they are to have me. I will open the gifts that my family has purchased for me. I will send my family away to work and school, and erase their existence from my memory. I will not go to work. Instead, I will take the day off and get a massage. I will head home for a nap and old episodes of Southern Charm. I will not cook dinner. We will go out to dinner as a family, to a place that does not offer chicken tenders on its menu, and at that point, I shall acknowledge that it is Luke’s birthday, too.
Is this preposterous? 100% yes. But is it also amazing? 100% yes.
If the last two years have taught me anything, it’s that living in this world can feel really, really challenging. It will suck the joy out of us if we let it. And for awhile, my joy was MIA. Allowing fear and uncertainly to rule over me left me in a state of survival. Existence. Stress. Despair. Regardless of the descriptor I use, the point is that it was no life.
I want to live. I want to celebrate all the things. I want to eat cake because it’s Tuesday and laugh when Luke swears (even if I get in trouble with his teachers later). I want to pay it forward at Starbucks and leave excessive tips for servers at restaurants. I want to play hooky because it’s sunny and jump in puddles after a hard rain. I want to make a big deal out of my birthday for no other reason than that I can.
When I’m old and grey(er), I want to look back at the life I lived and smile. How about you?
