Every other week when I was a kid, some kid brought their store-bought cuppity-cakes into school, beaming benevolently as we wished them a perfunctory “happy birthday” before diving face-first into the sugar. The poor teachers had the task of dealing with us after we’d gotten our sugar high on.
I tried to rise above it as a kid. To say, “it’s okay; the teachers like ME better because I don’t bring on the sugar high.” But it was a steaming pile of bullshit. Had I been given the chance, I’d have jumped to bring my very own sugared treats into the class, my classmates bowing before me, a queen doling out cake to her loyal subjects.
Thanks to my parents humping schedule, I was never given the opportunity.
My birthday falls into the absolute middle of the summer abyss. July 15th. Pay day.
Every year, I’d throw parties, and about half the class would show up. The rest were too busy vacationing up in Detroit or whatever and unable to attend. This meant less loot for me. Plus, I felt like a loser. My parents should buy me a pony to make up for this.
And now that I’m an adult, I swore off the 15th as my “birthday,” opting to celebrate on the more refined sounding 28th. That pushes my birthday just far away enough from July 4th that I might actually stand a chance at throwing a party with real! live! guests! Plus, I made it official on The Facebook, which means that it’s really real, right?
Plus, July 15th is cursed. Some gigantor percentage of the last ten years has found me, on my birthday, in the ER or Urgent Care. Happy Birthday! You have a scratched cornea!
But try as I have to deny it, I can’t help but feel like tomorrow IS my birthday. Which means that I’m both terrified by what the day will bring and hopeful that it involves presents.
Which, now that I think about it, is how I feel every day.