When I turned nine, my parents let me have my first sleepover party. Of course, individual friends had been allowed to spend the night at my house a few times before then. But there's nothing quite like 11 fifth-grade girls talking into the wee small hours of the morning to really prove how much your parents love you.
Over the course of the night, there was one practical joke played, one girl whose mother had to come get her because she was too scared and one stain on the living room ceiling which appeared as a result of a game we brilliantly coined, "Who can throw the Glow-In-the-Dark Gak the highest?" It's not important who won, but it is noteworthy that the stain remained on the ceiling for several years, much to my parents' chagrin.
All in all, it was a pretty good party. Honestly, if my upcoming 22nd birthday was half as fun, I'd consider it a success.
I love birthdays. I know people, even those our age, who refuse to acknowledge the approaching date even when it shows up in my "Upcoming Birthdays" on Facebook. Of course, my older relatives all hate when I call them on their birthdays, especially when I remind them I am the youngest in the family and thus will always be younger.
Meanwhile, I'm always a little shocked when my birthday isn't declared a national holiday.
Spring is a great time to have a birthday because the weather is nice, people are getting their daily doses of Vitamin D as the days grow longer and everything is finally starting to bloom. As I stated in an earlier column, I hate winter, and I've formed a theory -- it's because I'm a spring baby. I'm programmed to want to be surrounded by green and growth. I receive flowers from at least one person every year on my birthday and it makes me realize how happy I am to be born in the spring.
I must admit, this birthday seems a little surreal because it marks the end of milestone birthdays. From birth to 21, there are plenty of ages that offer new advantages. At age one, you've managed to survive a whole year in the world, despite your older brother constantly bashing you on the head with his Care Bear. At age 10, you've hit double digits. Then there's 13, 16 and 18, with their ever-increasing freedoms. Of course, the long-awaited 21 ain't so bad, either.
My 21st birthday was not exactly all it was cracked up to be. I happened to be in a foreign country where the drinking age is 18, so it wasn't like I suddenly had a range of social activities available. In addition, my birthday happened to fall smack dab in the middle of midterm season, so my friends took me out to a Mexican restaurant and kept checking their watches as we ate in an attempt to get home faster and get back to studying.
Although I may demand a lot from my friends for my birthday, I'd like to think I reciprocate in full. I don't just post on one's wall, I call my friends on their birthdays and sing them "Happy Birthday," painfully off-key.
I'm also big on presents and like to spend days searching for the perfect gift. Last year, I gave one of my close friends a toy plastic ninja-launcher for her birthday, and she loved it so much, you'd think I'd given her a villa in St. Tropez.
I'm sure all my talk about birthdays is a tad annoying to my friends. When I was younger, my mom actually made a rule that I wasn't allowed to talk about what present I wanted or what I wanted to do for a party until one month before the date. It felt like she was sentencing me to Chinese water torture, especially when I had usually figured out which American Girl doll outfit I wanted by the end of January.
I've always had this theory that when Hallmark invented the birthday card, they had the right idea. How many other times a year do your close friends and family, let alone vague acquaintances, tell you they're glad you're in their life? It's not nearly often enough, so a birthday provides them the perfect opportunity.
What I am saying is that you always feel good on your birthday, even if it's a horrible day, because, by golly, it's your birthday. Even if no one else wants to celebrate, we're all always up for celebrating ourselves.
Laura's column runs weekly on alternating Thursdays and Fridays. She can be reached at lsisk@cavalierdaily.com.
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