Of all the 365 days that it takes for our Earth to revolve around the sun, I own the number one shittiest day upon which to be born. That day– that birthday— shittiest of all– is December 26th.
Or as I like to call it, National Sleep It Off Day.
The day of my birth is so shitty, in fact, that when I was a child, my parents (the very people to blame for my shitty birthday) suggested to me that we pretend that I was born sometime better, like in the spring or summer.
You know you’ve got a shitty birthday when your own parents are in league to change it.
I gave the idea it’s due ponder… as well as any small child could, but in the end I said no.
No, said I, bearing a martyrs load of first world problems at far too young an age, I was born on this shitty, shitty, day, and to celebrate the day upon which I made my grand entrance at any other time would be a great untruth.
No, I would keep my shitty birthday, because shitty or not, it’s mine.
Often when I tell people my birth date, they tilt their heads just so, and look up at me with the same pity you’d address someone who’d just told you they’d contracted some devastating disease.
“Wow” they say “that’s a pretty shitty birthday”.
And yet, they do not understand the layers and depths of shit to which my particular birthday falls. Most group my birthday along with all the other shitty holiday birthdays, those born on Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, New Years Eve or New years Day, and although all those birthdays are shitty in their own respects, they don’t even begin to smoosh the fecal yule log that my birthday serves up for supper every year.
People say things like:
“You must hate those combo gifts, or people wishing you a “Merry Birthmas”, or “Happy Chrisday” (Just an FYI for all of you out there with good birthdays, when addressing someone with a shitty birthday, you should understand that it’s not about the presents. People with shitty birthdays get used to combo presents by the time they’re old enough to pronounce “presents”).
And then they clap me on the shoulder, give me a quick, quiet, smile that says that they alone understand my plight, and go on to say something like:
“It could be worse. You could have been born on Christmas”
Yes, it must be shitty to have been born on Christmas Day, and for people born on Christmas Day or Christmas eve, I do feel your pain. However, you should all take heart; for unto you, born these days, is given a birthday worlds less shitty than mine. Because even though you have to share your birthday with another important calendar day, and that sucks, your birthday falls at a time when everyone is happy, and celebrating. There’s togetherness and love. Peace on Earth, goodwill to men, and all that good shit. You, your family and friends have spent weeks, possibly months, preparing for the celebration that is (in part… in very small part, believe me I get it) your birthday.
For me, not so much. If I’m very lucky, some family or friend has made it through the festivities with little or no hangover, manages to wake up before the 27th, and remembers to call.
Probably not, though.
Sometimes people remember my birthday on Christmas Day, and although that’s extremely nice of them to go out of their way like that, it’s kind of like a premature ejaculation of good tidings, making the next day just a little more cold and depressing.
Hell, even I’m exhausted the day after Christmas. Since the kids came along, I don’t even give a crap about my shitty birthday. Happy birthday to me, there are plenty of leftovers, so I don’t have to cook dinner. Get out the candles and cake. Or don’t. You probably won’t, anyway.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.