Annual Rite of Passage

In the not too distant future, I will officially turn another year older.

And historically, this is how I feel about my birthday:

It's not about the uptick in my age, although that number's starting to make me twitch just a little.

While I secretly wouldn't mind some kind of fuss, I am deeply embarrassed by the attention and feel undeserving. When someone is kind to me, I vacillate between wanting to gush like a goober and averting my eyes and turning seven shades of please-let-the-floor-eat-me red. There's a few other issues when it comes to my birthday, like my mom people who have a compulsive need to make it about them.

And that boys and girls, aside from truly being a first world problem, is a personal thing I've got to get a handle on.

So much in the same way I'm trying to figure out who I am (and to borrow from and paraphrase my favorite cousin) how to get my head screwed back on again, I'm working on making this birthday thing comfortable for me. Whatever that means. No gifts? No cake? No candles? No special dinner everyone but me complains about?

I don't know.

And I'm not worried about it one bit. For a refreshing change. I'll figure it out as I go.

*party may mean read a book and eat a bagel w/cream cheese.