Learning to Love My Birthday

It has taken some years.

Ryan Redmond


Photo by Seyedeh Hamideh Kazemi on Unsplash

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I’ve never liked celebrating my birthday.

I’m not the type to announce that my birthday week has arrived.

Or birthday month.

Or God forbid, be one of those who have a birthday season. You know the types. The ones who have decided astrology dictates their entire personality so when it’s their time of the year they make it all about themselves.

Note: I’m an Aquarius.

I’m also not the type to expect others to plan something for me, as the most planning I do for myself is deciding last minute what type of takeout to order to go with my wine.

I’m not great at receiving gifts either.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy getting things, but I always respond with one or all of the following:

You shouldn’t have.

I can’t accept this.

Why did you spend this money on me simply because I survived another year on this planet?

When two good friends gifted me with the perfect gift, a wine fridge, I asked them if they could still return it, as it was far too expensive.

To sum it up, I’m not a fan of my birthday.

However, perhaps with the wisdom of age, I’ve come to understand that I should enjoy celebrating my birthday.

We all should.

The last time I actually did something of a celebration was for my 30th.

I went to Portland for the weekend. (Oregon, not Maine).

A friend had been there for a few months working, and since I was in the area, he suggested I’d drive up.

I splurged and got a hotel room downtown. Him and I went throughout the city drinking and eating from one place to the next.

Many drinks were had.

Delicious food eaten.

A good time all around.

Looking back on it, I realize that little weekend trip was the last time, and one of the few times, I actually celebrated my birthday.