Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday. For the past 40 years I've eagerly anticipated the day of celebrating and doting. This year is different because for some reason I just don't care. The day doesn't feel special; and celebrating feels more like an inconvenience than a joy. 

I'm not upset about turning 41. I think I'm at the point in my life where I no longer care about the number. Aside from doctors, who are quick to point out middle age whenever possible, nobody has cared about my age since I turned 21. This year, my birthday just doesn't feel important.

Scott has never cared about his birthday, and I am beginning to understand his reasoning. He has always contended that the date made no true difference in his life, so he refuses to become fixated on a number. Not caring used to feel like such a foreign concept.  Surprising even myself, I am now echoing his sentiments. 

Having the Birthday Blahs doesn't mean that I am going to forgo celebrating altogether.  I'm looking forward to not having to cook dinner and to copious amounts of cupcakes for dessert.  After all, I may no longer require constant doting and celebrating, but a few perks are always welcome.