Today is my birthday. Yay! I am the ripe old age of twenty-five, or a quarter of a century if you like. It is falling on a Wednesday so no rampant consummation of alcohol, but I will mark the day with some pleasantries including actually staying awake past nine so I can Skype home and become emotional.
Usually I drag my birthday out as long as possible and this time will be no exception. While today is of course the main day, my birthday will expanded throughout my trip to London this weekend and more than likely concluded the following weekend with the extreme one-day-binging aforementioned.
Yet I am not excited. Well, perhaps that is an understatement. More truthfully is I am not as excited as I once was. I am looking forward to the festivities planned but I feel almost nervous about the day and do not want anyone to approach me about it or make a fuss. This is not because I am feeling old and am hung-up about being officially in my mid-twenties. Then what is it? Who knows? Maybe this is just something that happens as we get older and people do not tell you for fear of nipping the enjoyment in the bud, the same as what we do with kids and Santa Claus.
While I am sure I will enjoy myself over my two-week birthday, the butterflies are noticeably missed from my stomach. Is this normal or can I add another to my list of freakish qualities?