On my 28th birthday I took the day off work. I awoke at 6:30 a.m, went through my leg routine, spun it out and burned more than 450 calories at the gym. I stood in the Crunch restroom blow drying my hair in my bright colored, floral romper while passersby stared at me and admired my outfit, complimenting me on how pretty I looked and asking what the special occasion was.
“Today is my birthday,” I responded to a girl who asked.
“Happy Birthday! How old?”
“You’re a baby.”
Twenty-eight is a baby, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not ready to be considered “old” by society’s small minded standards.
I had asked my parents to go to a birthday breakfast with me at one of these nice restaurants I enjoy going to but don’t get to visit often. I looked forward to it. The plan was to leave at 10:30. I was not surprised when my mother took her time and we did not leave until 11:30 – a mere hour before my dad needed to catch his train to work.
I sat in the backseat of my parent’s car, stressed out and anxious that we would need to rush and I would be the cause of my dad’s missed train. This situation felt too far out of my control. Even though it’s my birthday my feelings don’t get considered. They never are.