Monday, December 31, 2012

I Hate My Birthday

Unless I'm on the Tweeters or hiding behind my computer screen, I am the opposite of an attention whore. I am a "sit behind my desk and work and everyone else can have the credit" whore.

A whore of a different color, if you will.

I didn't want to have a first dance at my wedding. I directed shows and hated being in them in school. I was always a better coach than I was anything else. I am a behind-the-scenes girl.

So birthdays are kind of a "meh" thing for me to begin with. I don't mind getting older, I just don't really want everyone to, you know, pay attention to me.

Yes, I understand that I am probably the only person in the world who feels this way, but that's cool. I've always been different. Ask my dad about how we used to watch "ER" together when I was 8 years old. I started out weird, and I plan on remaining that way.

Anyway, on top of not liking the attention, my birthdays in past years have sucked major donkey balls. I was born on December 29th, so everyone is either out of town with family or just tired from being around so many freaking people for the past month. My friends are never available, and I love going out to dinner with my family, but it isn't exactly different from the status quo. Oh, and I dare you to have someone sing to me at the restaurant. I will spontaneously burst in to tears.

It started probably 10 years ago when my brother decided to take my dad car shopping for him on my birthday. My teenage self was all like "WHAT?!"

Fast forward a few years to when the same brother was in town over my birthday again and made the whole family cry by being a douche.

Then the next year when there was something else that made me cry.

And then the next year when my husband pouted through my entire birthday because he didn't like his Christmas presents.

And then the next year when he did the same thing. Cue the tears.

Yeah, fuck that shit. Birthdays are crap.

Anyway, this year I got the birthday of my dreams, and all it took was the DEATH FLU.

I was knocked on my butt (and I'm still kind of on my butt) with this icky gross flu of never-ending-ness. It started the night before my birthday. On my birthday, I was well enough to go out to lunch, come home, go to the Coach Store with my hubs and get a new bag (well, c'mon....) and have cake. Other than that, I was sleeping. No one bothered me. No one made half-assed attempts to take me out for drinks. I got text messages instead of phone calls.


So, uh, thanks, DEATH FLU, for, like, giving me an awesome, semi-vomitty birthday that passed without spectacle. You're (kind of) a pal.

And, as always, it's hip to be square (and flu-ish?), kids.

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