I called my mother early this week and asked if I’ve always been obnoxiously excited about my birthday. She paused to consider her answer.
“Well,” she began, “you weren’t that excited the year you were born …”
If there’s any indication of how much a birthday girl I am, it may be my first memory: July 5, 1985, better known as my fourth birthday. I woke lying on my left side, staring at the pen scribblings with which my sister and I had claimed the wall as our own. (“We’ve got to do something about that wall!” is my first thought in memory–suggesting that not only have I always been a birthday girl, but I’ve also always been neurotic.) I climbed out of bed and wandered down the hall to our living room, where I perched on the back of the couch to open my present from my parents. Rules don’t apply to the birthday girl, after all. My parents still have that gift–the soundtrack to the Care Bears movie, on vinyl.
So yes, I am painfully narcissistic when my birthday approaches. But this year, my friends generously indulged my need for birthday glory.
Plans began to coalesce in the days leading up to my birthday–and the best part was, my only role was saying, “Yes, that’s what I want.” A friend organized a tubing trip, pool party and cook out while others cooked sides and birthday dessert (homemade peach and blueberry pie with an almond crumble topping–amazing!). They sent out save the dates and invites, then tallied up the guest list. They paid for my tube and my food and repeatedly went out of their way to make sure I was catered to.
It was perfect.
We’ve got at least 10 months until I start contemplating my next birthday party, and 11 months until the next countdown begins. But I’m not sure any birthday can top this one. I’ve never felt so loved.