No, it is not my birthday, and if it was, you would hear neither me telling you about it nor me encouraging others to tell you about it. Why? you ask.
Because I'm not a kid.
In the adult world, the girth that is birthday happiness has reached excessive proportions. It's your 28th birthday? It's your 33rd birthday? It's your 46th birthday? Well, by all means, take off work! Let me call the radio station for you and put your picture in the paper. What, you mean you forgot my 43rd birthday yesterday? Well, that certainly means you are not my friend and don't care at all about me.
Anyone getting my drift here?
Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge anyone planning a birthday celebration for another, be it by his or her spouse, friends, or coworkers, and I've been excited to celebrate with all my friends over the years whether it's simply through a card or by dancing my butt off to badly copied cover tunes at a smoky bar. For my 30th, my best friend planned a few elaborate surprises, and I can honestly say that her efforts are recalled in my memory as one of the nicest things anyone has done for me. But would I have been mad had she not planned a party? No. Was I angry that some of my friends genuinely could not make it because they had activities with their children that evening or because they had to work? No. I am an adult, and if I want to see my other busy, adult friends, we'll make plans later. Why?
Because I'm not a kid.
Have a birthday coming up? I hope someone plans something nice for you, and that the people most important in your life call you to wish you a happy birthday, but if you expect people to drop plans they already had or to crown you Queen for the day, you need a big, fat reality check.
A simple Google search can give you the much needed education that you may be lacking. According to Matt Rosenberg on About.com, you share your birthday with nearly 18 million people around the world. Eighteen million! Some of those eighteen million people are starving to death in third-world countries while you're sitting at home being pissed off that your cousin once-removed didn't come stuff his face with that crappy whipped-icing cake you purchased from the same retailer happily exploiting the people in said third-world countries. Eat that!
Now, I must make a concession in that I go all out for my daughter's birthday, and I'll admit to spending far too much money on all the other kids we are so lucky to know. They are, however, CHILDREN, and they should be honored as such. But once you've had at least 22 birthdays, get over yourself.
Keep this in mind: You're an adult, so you should know by now that it's not all about YOU.
