There are three types of birthday people. There are the ones who adore their birthdays like they’re little kittens that just have to be petted whenever they come around, who shout it from the rooftops, who crave birthday parties just because, and who proudly announce 
their new age before anyone even thinks to ask. “How old are you? How old are you? I’m seven years old!” There are also the ones who celebrate modestly, with a few close friends, or maybe even just family, a small birthday cake (or birthday flan, if you will), and a bottle of Dom Perignon (okay, so that last part’s a little sad). And finally, there are those who deny even having birthdays. They swear they never get older, hide the year on their driver’s licenses, and dare you to point out their gray hairs. I fit firmly into the former category, and am damn proud of it.
Every year when my birthday nears, hordes of people celebrate by throwing up banners, decorating their houses, and even yards, singing songs in the streets, and putting up a big tree with twinkling lights on it. While that’s so sweet, and I really appreciate it, I know they’re not really paying homage to the day of my birth. They’re celebrating some pagan holiday instead. That’s okay, though. It doesn’t dim the day for me at all. After all, this pagan holiday is a couple of days before my actual birthday, so some of the crazed nature of it has died down some by the time I expect everyone to get re-energized for my party, and for my special day. Which happens to be tomorrow. Yay!
And I love the classic joke about how your first birthday and your last birthday are the same. People fill a room, and your family has to tell you, “these are your friends,” and you have to believe them because you know no better. I hope that’s not true, at least for the last one, because I hope to be coherent and know what’s going on then, but we’ll see. In this day and age, though, we do have the glory of Facebook that act as our family would in the aforementioned two bookend birthdays. It tells you when your “friends” have their birthdays so you can put your condolences (I mean, your celebratory greetings) on their timelines (or walls, if you prefer). Of course, if they were really your friends, wouldn’t you know when 
their birthdays were? Why would Facebook have to tell you? And does it makes it any less of a sentiment that you had to be reminded by an entity like that, or are they just grateful that they got a post on their timeline from you?
When you’re young, you enjoy your birthdays because you get toys, and as you grow up you enjoy them because you get money, but then you start to think that age isn’t a good tradeoff for these things. You wish you could give the money and gifts back in exchange for the fountain of youth, but it’s not showing up anytime soon, Vasco de Gama. And that’s okay, because with age comes experience, and with experience should come a greater appreciation for how far you’ve come. Enjoy the years. They mark you as someone with character. So think about that when your next birthday comes (no matter how old you are). I know it will be on my mind tomorrow.
Sam
Sam's Online Journal 