That’s right. I am determined to have a good time this birthday, and it isn’t gonna be pretty.
Normally I despise my birthday, and here’s why:
Every single year, my mom insists on coming to town to stay with us for my birthday, and usually winds up cooling her heels here for about a week or two. She doesn’t visit because it’s my birthday. She does it because there’s an annual sale at the local Neiman Marcus and she lives elsewhere where there isn’t a Neiman’s. She also gets bored at home (which is a 3-hour drive), so she comes here to be bored.
Anyway, she stays with us, sits on my couch all day complaining or asking “watcha doin’?” She’ll occasionally (ever other day at my place, far less at hers) get genteelly tipsy (because Southern ladies never get drunk) and start making faces at me like a two-year-old, somehow managing to knit or sew at the same time. Then she’ll try to decide what the have for dinner, and will occasionally drag her butt off my couch to shop while I try frantically to get some work done. Intermittently, I will get the usual diatribe on the fact that I need to wax my eyebrows, cut and dye my hair, and, gee I’m getting a little pudgy.
Then my actual birthday rolls around and she squeals, “Oh, let’s cook at home this time!” Then she proceeds to decide for me over my protests what I want for my birthday, pretends like she’s going to cook it, then “supervises” me while I spend two or three hours cooking a complicated meal I really didn’t want anyway. While I’m eating it, like during all holidays, Mom tries to force more food on me than I want. I fend off her advances, nearly making her cry, then when I accept the food, she tells me I shouldn’t eat it 'cause I’ll get fat.
When it’s all done, I still have to wash the dishes because, in my house, she who cooks does not have to clean. Mom is still laboring under the delusion that her supervising me means that she’s cooking, not me.
When I wake up in the morning, Mom’s still there, wondering what “we’ll” be cooking for dinner that night. (Did I mention Mom was a bit obsessed with food?)
I tried telling the woman I was going out of town this year. She said, “Oh, can I borrow the keys to your condo? I’ll just bring a friend and we’ll stay at your place.” :rolleyes:
Anyway, I’ll be 29 this year (in 9 days, anyway), and it’s way past time I did something about this. I’m not quite sure how to go about it, but I’m relatively sure that, no matter how diplomatic I am, it’s not going to be pleasant. I expect lots of crying, screaming and yelling with a heaping helping of guilt.
I normally hate my birthday. This year, I’m dreading it because I’m actually working up the friggin’ courage to make sure I have fun. But even though I’m dreading it, I’m doing it anyway.
Anybody else despise their birthday? Why or why not?
If I’ve got half a brain I’ll take a leaf out of your book and do the same myself next year.