Birthdays are so Last Year, and the Year Before, and the…
I think I’m done with celebrating my birthday. I turn 26 in just over two weeks, and unlike every other year, when I stop and think about the big day, nothing happens. I don’t get excited, I don’t want to start planning a party, and I especially don’t look forward to having my Facebook wall inundated with half-hearted birthday greetings from people who I haven’t seen or talked to since my 2008 Mexican birthday fiesta (Arrriba, Arrriba!)
It’s not that I’m adverse to aging and the notion that my early twenties are officially coming to a close. In fact, it’s quite the opposite considering that I’ve always rolled with an older crowd. I’ve been told my entire life that I’m a 40 year old trapped inside an X year old’s body, and I’ve never taken offence to that statement (provided that people still envision the 40 year old inside of me with perky tits and a nice ass). So, perhaps the aversion to celebrating that comes about this year is simply a desire to stop highlighting how young I am in comparison to the rest of my universe.*
At work, I am at least 5 years junior to everyone else who holds the same position. Outside of one high school boyfriend, I’ve consistently dated older than myself by an average of 10 years. In elementary school, the part I often enjoyed the most about play dates with other kids was talking to their parents.
These aren’t choices that I’ve consciously made, trust me. I just don’t know how to be any other way; I’m uncomfortable around people my own age for the most part. It sometimes feels as though I’m on the mental fast-track through life - not that I am a genius or anything remotely as useful as that, but more so that the way I think and speak is always off by about 5-10 years. Take Sam I’s ninth birthday party, for example, when I commented to her mother that the Barbie doll around which Sam’s birthday cake was built should officially be branded Lucien Bouchard Barbie, on account of the fact that it only had one leg (more of a peg, really, to keep the torso upright in the cake). I’m pretty certain I fully expected her Mom to engage in a dialogue about this observation with me, but instead she just told my parents I’d made a rather strange and slightly inappropriate joke when they came to pick me up later that evening.
So, from here on out I plan to acknowledge my birthday as little as humanly possible. If age is just a number and you’re only as old as you feel, then it really shouldn’t matter in which year I was hoisted from my mother’s uterus, or on what day annually the Earth finds itself hitting the three hundred and sixtieth degree in its rotation around the sun relative to the day I became a 40 year old in a newborn’s body.
* If you’re part of “my universe,” please don’t take that statement as me flaunting my comparative youth. Not what I was going for. I use eye cream just like the rest of you…