My birthday’s on Saturday. Is it weird that I don’t care about it?
I feel like I haven’t for awhile now, since I was 15 at least. It’s just I don’t see what’s so special about it. I used to get a really nice feeling when my birthday would come around, but not so much anymore.
I suppose it’s nice to think you were brought into the world on this certain day and all but aside from that, what’s the point? I don’t really ask for gifts because I’m really bad at remembering others’ birthdays and more often than not forget to get people anything, so I usually feel guilty when someone gets me something. Even my parents and family. I just feel so reliant on them all the time, I start feeling awful when they even offer.
Because of my dairy intolerance and all-around wheat avoidance, going out to eat gives me more anxiety than pleasure, so I’m always lukewarm to that idea too. Excessive drinking went out of style for me long ago. Not that I’m difficult to please, but I just feel like no matter what I do, the day has lost its meaning – at least for me.
It’s shame, I know. But I don’t know how to change the way I feel.
The only thing I like about my birthday is the weather. I love the fall. It’s always so crisp and cool and satisfying; As this part of the Earth gets ready for winter, nature begins to die and wither, leaves change colors, and the fresh air smells like the anticipation of falling in love. There’s a freedom about it; A giddiness that bubbles in my veins. The crazy idea that everything will be okay after all.