Today is my birthday. I normally just acknowledge that I have ticked off another year. There is no fanfare, no parties, no birthday cake. I don’t celebrate the event because a birthday is just the beginning. It is just the day I was born. I didn’t accomplish anything that day other than crying when the doctor smacked my bottom. Like everyone else, it was not an auspicious beginning.
I was not my mother’s precious gift from heaven that was delivered personally by God and several jealous angels. I was just another person who screeched into a parking spot on June 1st and stayed there for the past 68 years.
Every June 1st, I wonder why I get a ton of emails offering me 20% off because I happened to open my eyes and take a breath 68 years ago. I would rather someone celebrate the fact that I bought a house, or the fact that I was baptized, or the fact that I completed writing another novel, or the fact I received a Master’s Degree. Those things matter. Never, crying from shock and pain in those first tender moments of life outside the womb.
My accomplishments have nothing to do with June 1, 1954. I refuse to celebrate that day.
Karen Writes More Than Karen Crochets 