I was born 7,665 days ago. Yesterday was my 21st annual reminder.
The night before my birthday (well it was midnight, so technically it was my birthday) I was frumpy, as Ben says. I laid in bed staring at a popcorn ceiling in my otherwise awesome bedroom watching the fan spin ferociously and wondering why such a special day could start out so seemingly blah. Nothing was bad. My roommates peeked in with smiles and said happy birthday, my childhood best friend text me at 12:01 on the dot, I had talked to family and my fiance, and still I moped.
Tuesday morning I woke up in time for an egg breakfast and gradually made my way to the bus. The day rolled on with classes and a lunch at my favorite Cuban bakery by myself while I read a fabulously inspiring book. More classes came and went. I rode the bus home. I shoveled in dinner. I went to my weekly Bible study. It was all sort of ordinary. But it was wonderful.
Yeah, I said it. Birthdays are just days. They’re special, sure, but so is today and tomorrow and the day after that.
And I’m not just saying all this as a passive copout because I felt unappreciated on my birthday. I, in fact, felt a lot of love on my birthday, and I am grateful. I just wish I realized more often how special even the ordinary days are, how even they are worth celebrating. And, I’ll have you know, I’m also not the girl who has the “If anything can go well it will” bumper sticker on her Impala, but I know a good day when I see one, and I’ve been treating a lot of them like they’re nothing special at all.
As of yesterday I could legally sip wine with my pinky up. So I did.
I watched Pretty Little Liars with my roommates ( I swear I turned 21, not 12) and my lovely friends threw a miniature surprise party complete with crepe paper streamers and coconut-vanilla cake. I had about an inch worth of Evolution’s American white wine in a glass that was too big from a bottle I had chosen all on my own (kind of… thank you Ben) at Publix based on its label being the raddest one I could find.
My darling friends gave me Welch’s sparkling grape juice, grapes and cheese, since only one of them is old enough to buy the real stuff anyway. I spoke to my parents and brother and grandparents and aunt and cousin and Ben on the phone. I received an endless supply of wishes on Facebook and I found out that Facebook and I share the same birthday.
It was all more than wonderful.
Sure, some days, birthday or not, are downright crappy/frustrating/miserable/sad/depressing, but I’m curious if we treated more days like they were our birthday, how different those days would feel.
“But if they’re all special, then really none of them are special at all.”
Then maybe we should tweak our definition of special or happy or wonderful and reconsider how frequently we slap boring or regular or ordinary labels on potentially phenomenal days.