In celebration of my birth month (who are we kidding, this tradition will never die!), here's a story I told in the March issue of Austin Woman Magazine. Shameless plug.
Enjoy.
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| I wish I were that cute as a rotund tween. |
In my youth,
and well into an age where it stopped being cute and started being socially
questionable, any time someone asked me when my birthday was I would sharply
reply with a “March”.
Like, the whole month.
I would then go on to explain
that the celebration of my birth was not limited to just one day - rather it
was to take place on all 31 glorious days. Following the self-righteous
explanation, I would often encourage my audience to shower me in a jubilee of gifts.
Most of the time, the audience who would
have to endure my all-hail-for-I-am-queen tangents about how important it is to
my social status that I get a pink Skip-It would be my parents. They’re good
people.
The month of my 10th
birthday, however, I was finally introduced to reality. We were nearly 2 weeks
into March and the only buzz around the house was the sound of my brother’s
electric shaver as he perfected his angry, teenage, thunder-stealing double mohawk.
Later, he will be kicked out of the house for obvious reasons. But that’s for
another time.
Appalled that no one was making
a ruckus about me and all my glory, I tried to create my own birth-month buzz
by planting pictures of things I wanted. I even created a convenient ranking
system based on my level of want with Lisa Frank stickers. Needless to say, no one cared. My dreams of
continuing my celebratory birth month forever were being crushed with every
passing moment.
When my actual birthday rolled around, I woke up to a phone
call from my dad. Usually, he would call to schedule a time for him to whisk me
away and spoil me with sugary treats and a trip to Toys-R-Us. Excited to
answer, I began spouting off my expectations for the afternoon. This time, however,
he called me at 7am to wish me a happy birthday from California and to let me
know that my age will be in the double digits for the remainder of my life.
The rest of my 10th birthday was lackluster, at
best. No Skip-It. No cookie cake the size of my torso (which happened to be
very bulbous at the time, so that would have been beneficial). No surprise
visits from famous celebrities. Just dinner. With my family. And no
celebrities. And a box of 96 Crayola Crayons to accompany the myriad of
coloring books I demanded.
I was blind to not see the downfall of my birthmonth coming.
On my 8th birthday, I was attacked by a goose. On my 9th
birthday, I harassed Chuck-E-Cheese and was removed from the scene. And just
for laughs, on my 11th birthday my sister kidnapped me and drove us all
the way to Abilene to see a mediocre country band – leaving my suitcase behind
and forcing me to squeeze into her size 1 clothes that I’m pretty sure were
made at Baby Gap.
But you know, in addition to the mass madness of basketball fans
meticulously crafting their brackets and the madness that the onset of another
Texas summer brings – my favorite
form of March madness has got to be the flood of memories from my many years of
birthday madness.
You’ll be happy to know that the celebration of my birth is now
encouraged only the one day.
Which is the 18th.
Of March.
I take
cash.
