’twas the day of my birth

1 Dec

Yesterday was my birthday. Twenty-three years ago I was born.

There wasn’t a lot of anticipation for my birthday, just another year. No milestones, no big parties, no cake, just a little chocolate. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I started to question why we celebrate our “days of birth.” Did I accomplish anything? Being so young, I haven’t done much in my life. So why celebrate?

If anything, I should thank my parents on my birthday for conceiving me 23 years and 9 months ago, or thank God for creating me.

People get wrapped up in the birthday celebration because it’s a day where their friends and family stop and appreciate them or show their love. We feel needed, wanted, and loved on our birthdays. I received several text messages, dozens of Facebook posts, a few tweets. It makes me feel popular, even though some of the people who post of Facebook I haven’t talked to in awhile.

On my birthday, I just wanted to relax, do what I want to do, and enjoy life. Not every year do I need a celebration. Birthday’s are overrated. They come every year. I just hope I have quite a few more before they stop.

But why celebrate the creation of our lives one day a year? Why not celebrate weekly or daily? I’d like to think that I celebrate life often enough that I don’t need to go all out on my birthday and expect people to treat me special just because it happens to be the anniversary of my birth.

So cynical or not, I contemplated the reason why we celebrate our birthdays. People want to be loved, wanted, and treated special at least one day out of the year.

My sister told me, “Don’t have a barfday, have a birthday!” I laughed out loud. And then I asked her if she made that up; totally original.

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