Geburtstag? Anniversaire? Compleanno? Birthday?
More aptly called: you are older than you were a year ago. There are a lot of expectations…. uh, expected of somebody gaining a year. One have got to be more mature, more wise, more of everything they say. Well, more of everyting that the society deems good and fit for a modern woman to have - whatever it may be. They are obviously things that I haven’t figured out as yet. Sometimes it’s good to be told. Although I don’t necessarily envy those women who lived in the Dark Ages, or before the Suffregettes… suffered, but oftentimes I think somehow that some freedom ball-handlers just took off running way too far. I know that we aren’t supposed to have everything both ways (that’s not what life is supposed to mean, according to some wise people), but whatever happened to going the middle way?
Who draws the lines on these things, anyway? I really would like to have a word with ‘em.
But still, although we strived to be better, to overcome our flaws and get better at what we do, what is the significance of anniversaries? That our planet, the humble Earth, happened to revolve around the sun every three-hundred-and-sixty-five days (give or take), that somehow a yearly cycle is much more important than a daily reflection of things? As opposed to living on Pluto, for example, where it takes absolute ages to make one complete circle around the sun. Plutonians, aren’t they? (or whatever, since NASA were unable to find evidence of intelligent, or not-so-intelligent, life forms on that planet yet)
I’m nitpicking, I know. Sometimes I wonder that my getting older doesn’t necessarily any more wise, nor does it make me any more mature. But one thing for sure: more nitpicky and that much closer to having a menopausal disorder.
Talk about having one’s glass half-empty.
By the way, the birthday was yesterday. I waited for another day to mellow down a bit. Trust me, the glass was nowhere near full yesterday.