They Say It's My Birthday!

Yes, I'm a Sag with some Gemini and Libra as back-up dancers

December 18, 2012

Years ago, a former boss of me dragged me out of the office and onto the cold street to showcase a mini pony. My pop broke thoroughbreds so stallions, mares, and yearlings surrounded much of my teenagers years were. You couldn’t pet or play with the horses my pop exercised and broke, but I loved the feel of their coat. I loved watching horses roll around the in the grass, which is something I’d never seen with the horses my pop raised.

Now, we have differing opinions on raising horses and what’s ethical, and I have a markedly different opinion about a horse paraded out in the middle of downtown New York for my birthday entertainment. I couldn’t see then what my eyes can’t unsee now. The shivering scared mini pony while I preened uncomfortably for the camera. I should’ve been grateful but mostly I wanted to go to sleep. I don’t like people staring at me; I don’t like attention.

Even as a child, I always wanted to spend my birthdays alone. I didn’t understand the concept because I viewed it as a slow march to an open, waiting grave. Yes, I thought like this when I was eight-years-old. (Which should give you an indication of where this kid’s head was headed). The only thing I ever wanted was my mom or pop to say they were grateful I was alive—which neither of them ever did.

So, every year I have to remind myself that my life means something even if I don’t know what that meaning is. That even though I will leave this life unmarried, sans child and potentially alone, I have to tell myself the meaning is in the work I produce. The birthdays are not a celebration of life, but rather a reminder of time.

Get to work.

This weekend, I’m packing up to move to my friend’s home to housesit until April. I’ll spend my time really intently focused on writing whilst trying to figure out where I’ll be living, what I’ll be doing next because I don’t have unlimited funds. I don’t have a husband, family, or safety net.

And while I’m packing and inventorying hundreds of pieces of clothing for my resale business, I’ll pause on Sunday to make myself my favorite pasta. And I’ll order a slice of cake from that yummy place on LaBrea. And I’ll watch Wednesday a dozen more times. And maybe I’ll have a moment to write, to breathe, to tell myself I matter.

Anyone else feel weird on their birthday?

And yes, I’m sending two notes in one week. Don’t worry, it won’t be a frequent thing.