It comes but once a year

Today is my 23^rd birthday. This year it fell on a Sunday, which is the day of the week I was really born on. It’s happened a few times, but I can only remember one other time.

I always felt a sort of pride in being a Sunday baby, like it made me more sophisticated or something. It actually makes me a bit of jerk, because I kept my parents away from church that Sunday morning, and I had the nerve to keep Mom up all night on Saturday. Anyway.

I don’t usually do anything for my birthday. On my 16^th I had to go to a basketball tournament, and since then I haven’t had a party or anything. It’s just a normal day, except normally in the evening my family will put candles in a DQ ice cream cake and sing. My friends got very excited for certain birthdays, but I didn’t immediately go out and get my license when I turned 16. I turned 19 in BC, which is the age of majority there, and I didn’t spend it in a club. I didn’t go to the States to gamble when I turned 21. The advent of Facebook made birthdays a little more exciting; keeping track of the number of friends who wish “happy birthday” can be a confidence booster. Personally, I like to keep track of who offers more than “happy birthday,” and even better, more than “happy birthday Sarah.”

My birthday is only two weeks after New Year’s, and I think that’s why New Year’s means so little to me. My new year starts on January 15, when I add another year to my age. Still I don’t make any resolutions or goals for the upcoming year. I’m just saying that January 15 has more newness, for me, than January 1.

This all has a fairly melancholy tone, and it’s because Birthday 23 has been a regular ol’ day, with ups (singing with a small choir this morning in church, the first snow in a very long time) and downs (panic about starting a new job tomorrow for which I am completely unprepared). Just normal.

And so I move into Age 23 feeling generally apathetic. Happy birthday to me!

Reso-what?

Tis the season for New Year's Resolutions. When it comes to these, I'd call myself a cynic.

Go to the gym three times a week this year? As if.
Read four books a month? Right.
Introduce myself to someone new everyday? Sure.
Cut back on wasting time online? Oh, okay.

I dislike them, I think, because I see failure as inevitable. Weeks will go by when the only physical activity I get is climbing the stairs to the kitchen. Months will go by when the only reading I do is to find out which actors are in the movie I'm watching. I'll go days without saying hello to anyone new, and I'll spend hours staring at a computer screen before I realize I haven't done anything productive. To resolve would be to set myself up for failure.

I also find it difficult to come up with good resolutions. General resolutions are too easy to justify: "My resolution was to spend less time on Facebook, and today I only spent two hours. That's less than three hours!" Specific resolutions are tough to live up to: "I wanted to write thirteen blog posts this month, but I've only done twelve. Guess I'll forget about that one."

I admire people who make resolutions for themselves. They acknowledge the risk of failure, but continue. They dream of bettering themselves, and find specific ways to do so.

I could come up with fail-proof resolutions.
I resolve to accidentally reveal that I am a pessimist. Check!