Today is my birthday (and Neville Longbottom's...and Lisa Kudrow's), but it isn't a particularly important one. I'm not allowed to do or drink something that was previously, legally unattainable. There will be no celebration of a new half – or even quarter – century. Heck, I even woke up today in the same decade of my life that I was in yesterday. Still, birthdays have a way of feeling important, even if they're only important to one person. So, when someone wishes me a Happy Birthday, be it via Facebook post, text message, phone call, or even *gasp* an actual, in-person interaction, it's definitely some sweet icing on the cake of life.
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| Help me into bed, Argentina. |
Each time I get a little ping on my phone, alerting me to a new, exciting message from a close confidant, a family member, or an acquaintance I haven't talked to in years, it's like I'm suddenly Evita Perón from that musical that Madonna and Antonio Banderas were in – if you don't remember, it was called Evita. Now, birthday notes don't make me feel like the drunk-with-power, "High Flying, Adored" Evita, and I've certainly never felt like the confident, "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" Evita. No, on my birthday, I'm the rarest and most beloved of all Evitas. I'm the weak, dying from cancer, "ecstatic that her husband Jonathan Pryce Juan Perón
is still by her side" Evita. I get those sweet Facebook notifications, and suddenly it's like the world has seen me at my worst (i.e. a year older), and, rather than recoiling at the hideous, aged monster I've become, people actually want to take care of me. Suddenly, people love me!
Now would somebody please carry me up the stairs to my apartment?
I'm worn out from all of this adoration.
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