Stop this train

Two years ago, I stopped celebrating my birthday with a party. But my friends apparently had birthday party withdrawal and a boy had just broken my heart, so they threw me a surprise party. They told me, my birthday party was already a ritual (I’ve been having it since I turned 16.), a reunion. I couldn’t not have it.

Last year, I cried on my birthday week. Cried every day of the week. Something about turning 25 depressed me. I don’t know why. (I’m over that, don’t worry.)

Fast forward to tonight, the eve of my 26th birthday, I am neither happy or sad. I guess, I’m grateful at best. November started out great for me and the blessings just keep on pouring. But part of me misses the time when two weeks before my birthday, I’d list down all my guests (which my mom would take and plan a menu around) and compose a text message to send out the weekend before the party. Mommy loved entertaining at home—no matter how much she’d rant while preparing for it. She’d prepare pasta with three different kind of sauces one year, and her yummy lasagna the next. We’d have a garage-full of people and back in high school, my friends and I would walk once around the village park and talk.

Now, I didn’t even think of doing anything for my birthday. Not even lunch or dinner with family. All I really want to do is spend a few hours tomorrow with Mommy. Then, maybe bake myself birthday cupcakes.

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