The older I get, the more selfish I am with my birthdays. I don’t want a party. I don’t even want gifts, really. It’s my birthday and I get to do whatever I want. Lately, “whatever” consists of me and some stranger rubbing me down. Minds out of the gutter, I’m talking about a package at a day spa!
But I haven’t always been so anti-social on my day of birth. I used to be quite the party girl, until my 33rd. For this anti-climatic milestone, I decided rather than celebrate the 33rd year of my life I’d celebrate the 20th anniversary of my thirteenth birthday.
Despite the supernatural and bad luck connotations, thirteen is a good year. It doesn’t get much more exciting then leaving the blahness of kiddie hood for the vast land of Teen – so inviting with its promises of driving, voting and flying the coop to find your place in the world. And it all starts with the big one three.
The hubs and my parents decided to throw a party in honor of my “anniversary.” I recall looking rather fly in an all-white outfit with my back out - I’d recently lost fifteen pounds and was looking tatalicious. To top it off, I only allowed music from 1983 to be played.
Libations flowed and whilst I’m usually only a sipper, I tied one on in honor of my thirteen year old self, who of course would have celebrated in a much more age-appropriate manner. A good night was had by all and nine months later…I welcomed my second child, Princess Bea, into the world.
I haven’t looked that fly or had that much fun, during a birthday since. But don’t misinterpret the moral of the story. Wait…there’s a moral?
Oh, yeah there is – you can’t go home again and drink responsibly.
Bonne Anniversaire, Devyn!