The definition of insanity...

is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Why, then, do I continue to make a big deal out of my birthday when it's a spectacular disaster every year? This began when I was 15. I'd alienated myself from most of my friends by doing some typically stupid teenage things, and my former best friend decided to throw my other friend a huge party on my birthday. I wasn't invited, of course, and was left watching Rocky Horror with the loyal few who remained by my side. At least my cake had an awesome shark on it. A salsa shark, in fact.



I'm still close to my dear birthday twin and have long forgiven the others, but this event set off a chain reaction that only seems to break when I leave the country. Bear in mind I'm not the Super Sweet Sixteen type, and I don't need tons of money or a fancy event to make the day worthwhile. In fact, I had my sixteenth birthday party on the patio behind Lapperts Ice Cream. It was a low-key celebration, but an uninvited guest from another school showed up to spoil everything. I don't know why I let these things get to me, or why I still remember them more than a decade later, but they represent a pattern that's been difficult to break, with the exception of my 20th and 25th birthdays, both spent in Sweden.

Last year, I thought I'd be clever and jet off to New Orleans. Bobby and I caught the red-eye just before midnight, and landed in Louisiana a few hours into my 27th year. We elected to remain awake, since we only had a day to spend in the city before we were due across the river in Mississippi. Everything was going alright, and though I'd gotten an upsetting phone call early that morning, I decided I wasn't going to let it ruin my day. We went to the aquarium, wandered around the French Quarter, and found a nice bar to settle into for the evening. I sent a birthday toast to my friends back home, and had a fine time chatting with the locals.



On the way back to the hotel, though, gravity got the better of me, and I ended up scraping my face into oblivion on the sidewalk. I spent the last moments of my 27th birthday crying and spitting bloody gravel into the street. Fortunately I didn't break my nose or any teeth, but I sure hurt my pride. Some nice passersby ran to a nearby convenience store to get me a handful of paper towels, and I yelled at them to go away when they offered to call an ambulance. I was fine, and was still in my right mind enough to know the last place I wanted to be was in a New Orleans ER at midnight during Spring Break. We walked the last two blocks to the hotel, where I frightened the desk attendant and made a tearful phone call to my parents, who I was scheduled to see the next day. Funny, nobody in Mississippi (or Louisiana) batted an eye at my swollen and scabby face. Perhaps because I began every conversation with "I broke my face in New Orleans!" and was met with knowing looks. This must be a common fate. By the time I returned to Portland, my skin had mostly healed, but the birthday curse remained firmly in place.

So here we are, another birthday looming on the calendar, and I'm left with a choice: do I hide until it goes away, or do I roll those cosmic dice one more time? The 28th time's the charm, I think. Party at my house!