In my house we have a thing called birthday week. We even go so far as to have "birthday month" although only my mother and brother get to fully take advantage of that while my dad and I share a birthday month. Birthday week merely extends the celebration of your birthday and allows you to do whatever you want for even longer. My mother is a big proponent of birthday week and though I have claimed its privileges I wouldn't say that I have embraced birthday week. I think it's one of those things where your response has less to do with the thing itself, and more about how you were raised with it; it's not that I don't like birthday month, it's that was a big deal for other people and consequentially it wasn't a big deal for me.
Not so this year. For whatever reason, I decided that my twenty-first birthday was going to be an all-out celebration. Maybe it's because Harold Camping said that the world actually was going to end, but year twenty one was going to end in style. I went all out for birthday week: I blew off homework, cancelled rehearsal and spent the week at Playlabs 2011 at the Playwright's Center (more on that later) planned a big party and then an official excursion the next day. The world hasn't yet, and I may have just had the best birthday ever. And then the weekend ended with my friends gathered around, watching You've Got Mail and trying to work. (Some of us were successful and some of us were absolutely not. I was both.)
Perhaps the best part is that the celebration isn't really over because I'm headed home next week to celebrate with family and friends. Oh, and I'm going to see a play next week.
I may actually like birthday month.
love,
hannah
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