I'm skipping days because I'm the boss.
I hate waking up. I am not an early-bird. Ideally, I want to sleep so late that there is not even a hint of morning left. This is very conducive with having small children, teaching school, or maintaining any degree of viable employment.
I like taking walks late at night when my neighborhood is silent. I like places that stay open late, and I like crawling into bed at 4 am after talking until sentences don't make sense.
Some of my best friends are night owls. I think everyone should have a list of people they can call past midnight, knowing they will answer fully awake-the the TV playing in the background, and the sound of food cooking.
Why are you making spaghetti at 3 am?
I was hungry, do you want to come over?
For the record, I'm mostly reformed now. I don't stay up late unless it's the weekend, and it has to be really good spaghetti.
One particularly messyterribleshitishittingthefanwinter I survived solely because my neighbors kept their Christmas lights up extra long.
They had a flag pole in their back yard. Which they wrapped in a single strand of twinkle lights. At the top, they left a second strand of lights in an enormous tangled knot. I think it was supposed to be a star?
It looked very, very, stupid. I loved it.
I loved that flying-spaghetti-monster star, and I loved that they didn't take it down after Christmas was over, or after New Year's, or after Valentine's Day.
I'd look at it from my kitchen window every morning as I got ready for work while it was still dark.
I'd see it every night when I came home from work in the dark.
I saw it even when my jeans fell off my hips and dark circles made a permanent home under my eyes.
I told myself I could keep getting up and keep coming home as long as I could see that mangled star shining a few yards over.
When I noticed it was gone, it was spring.
I will keep writing these eight minute memoirs.
I’m not afraid of growing older, (for life’s not a paragraph/And death I think is no parenthesis) and my looks were never spectacular enough to warrant too much worry. More importantly, my life improves with the advent of age. I can stay up late, and eat all the candy I can afford. My house is as safe as I need it to be and as messy as I want.
I’ve never loved birthdays. People expect you to do something outrageous or elaborate every year- I hate the looks of judgement/pity when your revealed birthday plans somehow don’t involve enormous parties or carefully orchestrated surprises. Growing up, I resented my summer birthday- not being in school added to the pressure of making each birthday exciting- I could never just shrug and claim my parents made me go to class.
Here’s an impossible birthday wish- to go to school. To the classes I liked best, followed by doing the reading I like best. Birthday homework! Read all your favorite books and discuss them!
Aren’t I a delight?
Best birthdays are ordinary days heightened- sleeping in a little longer than normal, finding ways to see the people you love anyway but don’t get to see as much as you’d like. Not a party. Just talking about nothing and eating cake for breakfast-which I do anyway, but without guilt on my birthday.
The surprise I live every day? This good life. A miracle, despite everything. Why ruin that with artifice, with the bodies of friends hiding in dark rooms behind furniture? Why is the sign of a good friend the ability to trick someone on their birthday?
I change my birthday on social media so I can keep my birthday free from prying eyes of well-wishers. I do whatever I want, and usually that involves doing all the things I worked so hard for- going to work, eating dinner with my kids, pulling Dan’s arms around me tighter and insisting we stay in bed just a few more minutes.*
This way, no day and every day is my birthday. (my blood approves.)
*Unless it is one of those days I irrationally decide that cuddling is so annoying and how dare he! Again, a delight.