Today is my 23rd 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 16th 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!
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