I love my birthday. The date, I mean. When I was younger this wasn't always the case, but since my main frustration was that I had to contend with first semester finals every year instead of celebrating with friends, I've pretty much gotten over it. In fact, I've found that looking forward to my birthday has helped annually with post-Christmas ennui.
This year my family spoiled me with more than a week of special treatment: date nights, alone time, favorite meals, special gifts. I felt surrounded by love and admiration.
Date night my way: Calvin with my parents for the night, Jon and I hit the town for a book store crawl. We hit every book store within cold weather walking distance, then picked up pizza to eat at home on the couch, in pajamas, with a fire and a movie. (books: Sylvia Plath's Collected Poems; Wide Sargasso Sea; Alison Bechdel's graphic memoirs Fun Home and Are You My Mother; and Northern Lights, the original British printing of Pullman's Golden Compass).
I cooked only a handful of times all week, and Jon even made our lunches before he went to work. I got flowers and I spent an afternoon shopping with my mother. The night before my birthday the three of us went to our favorite local dinner spot. My actual birthday we spent at the NAIAS, followed by another favorite dinner.
I feel appreciated, visible, loved, and, I guess, a year older.
photo by Calvin
