This is me 35 years ago propped up by a pumpkin and sitting in front of a couch that’s draped in a blanket to protect it’s fine flowery 1980 fabric finish.
When you’re an adult, the government also likes to take fun pictures around your date of birth like passports that expire (by coincidence), health cards, and licences.
And we get to pay them to get these pictures taken.
“Happy birthday Kimberly.”
*Swipes credit card*
*Pats me on the head*
I’ll tell you, nothing puts you in more of a crappy mood quite like sitting in a crowded waiting room at the Ontario Ministry of Transportation knowing that you’re going to have to shell out $108 the day before your birthday.
As I was sitting there though listening to all of the people in the waiting room, people who shared the same birthday month as me, people who may even share the same birthday as me, moan about the wait, I was reminded of my grandma.
My birthday buddy.
One year, when I was much, much younger and in a stinky pouty attitude, my grandma said that September 4th was a good day to have a birthday and I disagreed because September 4th just happened to land on Labour Day weekend. AGAIN. ALWAYS. FOEVER. on or around the holiday.
“I never get to celebrate my birthday in school like everyone else because there is no school,” I stammered, “My friends are gone on vacation or they’re doing family things. So I don’t get a party!”
And life was super duper dramatic and I probably flicked my badly permed hair over my shoulder.
She laughed, this beautiful dear quiet woman who shared the same birthday as me, “It’s a good day to have a birthday because you were born. That’s what matters.”
In all honesty I didn’t get it but I nodded and smiled….
…except I stopped smiling when my dad put his foot in my ass for being a quote unquote “selfish shit”.
For 15 years, I shared a birthday with my grandma and it was something special. There isn’t a birthday that goes by that makes me sad that I had not appreciated this day more in the way she looked at it.
September 4th is a good day to have a birthday.
It’s because we were simply born and are alive.
This year has been a whole lot of sketchy but come to think of it, so was the year I was born and most of my college years thanks to sloppy bar hopping and doing shots of black coffee while studying the intricate workings of the colon for nursing school. Also sketchy was the year I became a mom and sleep wasn’t on the menu and the year I had back surgery and ate Percocet for a living.
Don’t do drugs.
Unless you like sleeping with your eyes open.
But despite all of that though, I can think of the good parts that exist within those sketchy fuzzy blurry sometimes hellish what-the-f**k moments.
Life is just that — horribly unpredictable.
My 35th year may be blessed with lots of happy wonderful things or…
I don’t know. Know one does, but my grandma knew.
That today, just like any day that you wake up is a good day to open your eyes, take a breath, and be born again.
So keep trucking no matter what.
Happy Birthday grandma wherever you are in that big blue sky xoxo