August 1st was my 25th birthday so I guess that officially puts me at the quarter life mark. Strangely, referring to myself as an adult has gotten a little bit more natural of late. I used to approach that reality with a real sense of disgust and contempt, but now it doesn’t seem quite as awful as I had once viewed it. Perhaps I realize that being an adult does not necessarily mean the denial of wanderlust, enthusiasm and maybe even freedom.
But let me just tell you, that I LOVE birthdays. Okay, I just enjoy holidays in general, but I am an unabashed birthday lover, especially my own. That being said, I don’t expect my birthday to necessarily be a big hurrah, but I do love the annual ritual of hearing my birthday story.
My mom and dad take turns telling me about how they went to the hospital and the nurse didn’t believe my mother was actually having contractions – and so my dad almost had to catch me. Thankfully the doctor casually walked into the delivery room and announced, “So I hear we’re having a baby!” And then there I was. My mom tells me how happy she was to finally have a girl, then my dad chimes in, “Oh you were an ugly baby… but look at you now, you turned out pretty well!”
That’s my birthday story. How funny and probably grossly self-indulgent to bask in all that all that sentimentality, but it’s my little reminder of how lucky I am to have their unconditional love and support.