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Monday, January 30, 2006 · posted at 5:41 PM

XXV. Today I am a quarter century old. And what Memorexed celebration do I have in store for this most auspicious day? Absolutely nothing.

Not since the days where I yearned for Cool Crimp Skipper (I had been archaically home crimping Teen Time Skipper's hair for years with a hot iron and disasterous burning plastic results) had I really felt compelled to celebrate my birthday.

My fashion muse from 1990-1992, when I wore t-shirt ties
and color-coordinated my scrunchie to slouch socks.
For one thing, being a month after Christmas, I never had time to accumulate a good "wish list." Presents were things I sort of wanted but not enough to rate on my Top 5 list I received from "Santa" thirty days prior. My favorite "Santa's not real!" moment, by the way, occurred when I opened the envelope Santa left me in my stocking and found a "Merry Christmas, Daughter!" card. Most curiously, my mom, Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny all had the same handwriting...

Then as I grew older, I shunned the idea of tchotchke gifts, which were cute but just cluttered shelves and ultimately all became dust bunnies. Then I shunned the idea of obligatory gifts because often times you can't find the "right" present and then just grab whatever tchotchke dust bunny or v-neck sweater the person already has in 5 different hues. Because of this rushed obligatory gift-giving, the quality of gifts has gone downhill as well - "Thanks... it's a muscle tee?" "A book? You shouldn't have. No, really, I haven't read since the 8th grade." And then you have to fake pretending to like it, and that's just way too much work, especially on your "special" day.

Aside from my opposition to the obligatory gift-giving culture, there's the whole celebration shenanigans. I don't like to party. I don't like to be center of attention. I don't like getting balloons tied to my hair and having clapping waiters wearing 80 pieces of flair sing "Happy Happy Birthday" and attracting an even larger audience to the fact that I have latex globes protruding from my head. In fact, only if I hated someone would I inflict a TGI Friday-type punishment upon them.

The only instance I would wish for a latex allergy.
Not to mention the fact that on birthdays we are often celebrating the wrong people. Birth is usually a passive experience for the birthee. I know I didn't have to do any work. If anything, we should all be applauding my mom for popping out a 9-plus pound baby.

Birthdays, similar to New Years, are often a time of self-evaluation and reflection. Where have you been, where are you going, what have you done... but I'm a ruminator when it comes to self-analysis. One who is constantly chewing and re-chewing thoughts until they are easily swallowed in digestible pieces. Yes - I am that annoying person who will ask you about an issue, nod thoughtfully, shoot the s**t for five minutes and then ask, "but what about... " and expect you to have jumped back to the train of thought with me.

And what have I discovered from my cogitation cud? I am now solidly ensconced in my mid-twenties having only accomplished two items on my objectives list - one of those being one I added on after the fact so I could cross something off. If everyone's life has a ripple effect on their surroundings, I feel I am casting my stones into a pool of jello.

This month we celebrated the anniversary of the day a great civil rights leader came into this world. Next month, a melancholy president and nation's first leader. Anything I think I may have accomplished pales in comparison to the potential of what a person can do in a lifetime. Perhaps I need to give up Sudoku in order to increase my productivity.

So when I have a bank holiday or ticker tape parade dedicated to the anniversary of my birth, I will celebrate alongside the giddy schoolchildren and disgruntled postal workers. Until then, for me, today is just another day.



	Monday, January 30, 2006 · posted at 5:41 PM XXV. Today I am a quarter century old. And what Memorexed celebration do I have in store for this most auspicious day? Absolutely nothing. Not since the days where I yearned for Cool Crimp Skipper (I had been archaically home crimping Teen Time Skipper's hair for years with a hot iron and disasterous burning plastic results) had I really felt compelled to celebrate my birthday. My fashion muse from 1990-1992, when I wore t-shirt ties and color-coordinated my scrunchie to slouch socks. For one thing, being a month after Christmas, I never had time to accumulate a good "wish list." Presents were things I sort of wanted but not enough to rate on my Top 5 list I received from "Santa" thirty days prior. My favorite "Santa's not real!" moment, by the way, occurred when I opened the envelope Santa left me in my stocking and found a "Merry Christmas, Daughter!" card. Most curiously, my mom, Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny all had the same handwriting... Then as I grew older, I shunned the idea of tchotchke gifts, which were cute but just cluttered shelves and ultimately all became dust bunnies. Then I shunned the idea of obligatory gifts because often times you can't find the "right" present and then just grab whatever tchotchke dust bunny or v-neck sweater the person already has in 5 different hues. Because of this rushed obligatory gift-giving, the quality of gifts has gone downhill as well - "Thanks... it's a muscle tee?" "A book? You shouldn't have. No, really, I haven't read since the 8th grade." And then you have to fake pretending to like it, and that's just way too much work, especially on your "special" day. Aside from my opposition to the obligatory gift-giving culture, there's the whole celebration shenanigans. I don't like to party. I don't like to be center of attention. I don't like getting balloons tied to my hair and having clapping waiters wearing 80 pieces of flair sing "Happy Happy Birthday" and attracting an even larger audience to the fact that I have latex globes protruding from my head. In fact, only if I hated someone would I inflict a TGI Friday-type punishment upon them. *The only instance I would wish for a latex allergy.* Not to mention the fact that on birthdays we are often celebrating the wrong people. Birth is usually a passive experience for the birthee. I know I didn't have to do any work. If anything, we should all be applauding my mom for popping out a 9-plus pound baby. Birthdays, similar to New Years, are often a time of self-evaluation and reflection. Where have you been, where are you going, what have you done... but I'm a ruminator when it comes to self-analysis. One who is constantly chewing and re-chewing thoughts until they are easily swallowed in digestible pieces. Yes - I am that annoying person who will ask you about an issue, nod thoughtfully, shoot the s**t for five minutes and then ask, "but what about... " and expect you to have jumped back to the train of thought with me. And what have I discovered from my cogitation cud? I am now solidly ensconced in my mid-twenties having only accomplished two items on my objectives list - one of those being one I added on after the fact so I could cross something off. If everyone's life has a ripple effect on their surroundings, I feel I am casting my stones into a pool of jello. This month we celebrated the anniversary of the day a great civil rights leader came into this world. Next month, a melancholy president and nation's first leader. Anything I think I may have accomplished pales in comparison to the potential of what a person can do in a lifetime. Perhaps I need to give up Sudoku in order to increase my productivity. So when I have a bank holiday or ticker tape parade dedicated to the anniversary of my birth, I will celebrate alongside the giddy schoolchildren and disgruntled postal workers. Until then, for me, today is just another day.	Recent Posts Getting Off on FeminismAdmittedly, much of my frus... and how many subscriptions do you own? There's not... Contradictory victory. I love group word games. ... Legano, ni legano...is gray area. At Gene's weddin... What's the number for 911?Q: How many emergency ve... I am dreaming for a purpose. ~ Innocent, Night... sh*t or get off the pot. Heather Graham's new sitc... Nursery Tales. I've read The Nanny Diaries, thumbe... And then? No, no 'and then'! I'm always surprise... A GPS for all time. In Movies and the Meaning of ... 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