Today, I am 38 years old. Three decades ago, I was celebrating my birthday buried under a blizzard in Ringgold.
Four years later, I spent my birthday crossing the Fripp Inlet on a chilly day after a section of the only bridge collapsed between Hunting Island and Fripp Island, where we lived at the time.
Americans were protesting the War in Iraq for my 18th birthday. I remember a real fear at the time of the potential of being drafted. It wasn’t until I was at Auburn I forgot all about those fears and watched along with everyone else as we made a mess of the Middle East.
Fast forward to 2008, and the markets were beginning to tank. No one knew how serious it was yet, but the first rumbles were happening that weekend as a bank failure was coming into the news. Look out, because in 2011 in the days leading up to my birthday, a horrible earthquake hit off the coast of Japan, causing a tsunami that ultimately broke nuclear reactors. My grandma also fell in the shower and compound fractured her ankle the same weekend.
The COVID-19 pandemic began a day before my birthday three years ago. Last year, tragic circumstances I still can’t talk about happened and changed the lives of everyone around me forever on the day after my birthday.
Some birthdays might be more memorable than others for the events happening in the surrounding world draw attention away from my personal feelings at the time. Other years I have cloudy visions of cakes and presents in from when I was younger and celebrated with family, and as I’ve gotten older haven’t given much thought to the day as I should unless something particularly tragic occurs.
Everything seems to come crashing down right around this time of year, and I have no real explanation for it at all.
So I ask myself at this point: does a black cloud seem to fall upon the world around me on my birthday, or are these simply a series of unfortunate circumstances that seem to coincide every few years or so?
I take it seriously enough now that I don’t want to celebrate my birthday anymore. The day is somehow cursed, and shouldn’t be considered on the calendar as special (maybe except for the celebration of the mathematical constant, Pi Day.)
Understand that I know I sound insane, or at least I sound a bit nutty. The idea that somehow the universe cares enough to make “disasters” happen on my birthday is about as narcissistic a thing I could ever imagine coming out of anyone’s mouth, much less be written on a page I’m publishing to the wider world. Anecdotal evidence compiles against my logic, unfortunately.
Don’t get me wrong, there have been good years along the way. When I got my learner’s permit, my Dad and I drove to Daytona to camp for the weekend and he let me take a turn at the wheel on the interstate. (By then, I was routinely acting as the designated driver at 14 for my parents on Jacuzzi nights on Fripp.) There were plenty of birthday parties in the McDonald’s PlayPlace or going to movies with family and friends. I’ve had years where I’ve sat down for quiet meals and drinks and been perfectly fine. I was quite drunk for my 30th birthday in front of people I shouldn’t have been drunk in front of at the time. (Never again…)
Maybe this year it’ll be just another normal day. A work day for sure, because I don’t want to think about it much anymore.
Maybe someday in the future, I’ll be able to look back on these turbulent years of my life and say “it was all coincidence, but awful to experience” and be able to enjoy my birthday.
Right now, I just want to express my apologies for any misfortunes the world is suffering. Don’t blame me for natural disasters or bank failures. Apparently, it’s just that time of year.
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