I hate those calendars. I vividly remember having to go look up the people that share my birthday. Before the Internets, too. Good luck being a third grader trying to look up information on Sissy Spacek and Jimmy Buffett. Then there’s that other guy I share a birthday with.
Jesus, you’re stealing my thunder.
Yeah, yeah. I know you’re 2012 years older than me and you’re all famous and stuff for saving the people of the world from themselves. Or so I was told during my ten years of Catholic school.
My parents and immediate family always went to great lengths to make sure the parts of the day were differentiated. My husband and in-laws have done a great job since they’ve come into the picture.
Our tradition of Denny’s breakfast stemmed from me getting a free meal because it was my birthday(!) and my parents could usually con the grumpy, crusty waitress to throw my brother in for free too since his birthday is the 27th and ‘Don’t you feel sorry for these kids whose birthdays are trumped by our Lord and savior?’
But can’t a girl get a call from her gal pals on her birthday without being trumped by Nana’s cranberry sauce? Can’t she celebrate her 21st birthday by doing shots with all of her friends, not just her Jewish ones?
My friends have decided that for the big 3-0, they are going to orchestrate a giant birthdaypalooza wherein I get to do anything I please. Except, I have no idea what I want to do, because I’m used to sharing my day with that big guy up north.
So I ask you, readers. What wouldn’t Jesus do for his 30th birthday?
About the Writer
Lindsay Maloan is a Jill of All Trades. She can take pretty pictures, arrange the snot out of some flowers, sew a dinosaur hoodie for your wee T-Rex, and she knows most of the words to “Baby Got Back.” If you are lost in the woods, Lindsay won’t help you survive, but she can name the tree you lay down to die under. You can find more of her many words and deeds on her blog, With a Little Love and Luck or on Twitter @lilloveandluck.