Birthday Girl

Birthday Girl

I have mixed feelings about my birthday. Not in the “I’m getting older” way, but in the “it’s just another day” way. I think I stopped caring quite early on, and not for any particular reason that I can think of.
 
A friend and I share the same birthday. (The first year I knew him, I forgot that. It was quite embarrassing.) We’ve known each other since high school, and by our last year, I’d already started to just forget my own birthday was coming. As a result, he planned a birthday party, invited me, and called it mine too. He’s moved away now, and I just let my birthday pass.
 
This year, my co-workers took me out for lunch. We’ve sort of made that a department tradition, so I’m okay with it. My parents get me a few things, and I don’t think any force on Earth could dissuade them from that.

 
I’m trying to sort out what a birthday means to me. It has to be more that “hey, I’m still here!” Really, there’s more than that, isn’t there? Maybe it’s not about celebrating the continuation of the journey, but the start of it; a chance to see where you started, who you’ve been, and more, who you are now. I think I have to ponder that angle for a bit.
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