A Day to Celebrate Myself

I’m not very big on my own birthdays. I’m not one to throw parties or demand large gifts or obsessively check Facebook for happy wishes. Though I do appreciate all those wishes, and try to give my thanks to those that give them, I just don’t think my birthday is that big of a deal. It’s not that I am afraid of getting older, in fact, it’s probably the opposite. I can’t wait to be thirty…like, seriously, can not wait! Most of this stems from me being so much younger than many of my peers, and always feeling like the youngest kid in the room. I was seventeen years old when I went to college, not even old enough to get into a 18+ bar, let alone drink alcohol. I got married and had my first kid at twenty-three, when most of my friends were still in college themselves. The new friends I made through work or playgroups were all at least ten, fifteen, even twenty years older than I was. And when I got my current job, one that I covet, I was by far the youngest person in that position. Most people assume I’m older than I am, which is why I easily forgave Lucy’s best friend’s mom, who asked if I was turning thirty-five today. When I tell people I’m turning twenty-nine, I see them do the math in their head, trying to figure out when I had Lucy and how old I was when I got my job, and it’s extremely frustrating.

But back to the happy part of birthdays. Today I’m turning twenty-nine, one year away from the big three-oh, and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to decide what this means to me. I have lots of plans for the upcoming year, many of which require massive amounts of self-study, which, let’s face it, isn’t fun for anyone. But it needs to be done. I want to find ways to make my life better, more appreciated, a happier place to be.

But for today, I’m quietly celebrating with the people that love me most. People who, despite my petty whining, do think this day is a pretty big deal. Oh, I love them so.