very much dislike

I hate my birthday.

Okay. Maybe hate is a strong word. Dislike. I very much dislike my birthday.

Crappy things happen on my birthday. Like when I saw my dad at the pharmacy one year. And he didn't say anything. He completely forgot my birthday until my little brother informed him of it - three months later.

There are far more emotionally scarring ones than those - but I digress.

So - for example - this year all of my friends are coming together for a wine tasting and dinner for my birthday. And for two days I have been plagued with itchy eyes, a sore throat, chills and an achy body. I've pumped my body full of Zicam, Ricola throat drops, tea, soup and anything else I can think of to stop myself from becoming a whithering sickly mess.

I keep the space heater close by to stop the chills and when I got home this morning, took a steaming hot shower, slipped into layers of jammies, curled up under layers of blankets and slept as long as I could.

I'll do the same thing to start off my birthday...hoping to ward off both germs and bad luck. My father remembered it this year - which is a good sign.

I'll pray that my taste buds don't desert me for the pecan crusted chicken with raspberry sauce or the wine line-up. I'll pray my eyes don't sting and my body doesn't ache for the friends - who I dearly love and appreciate for trying to make this a most wonderful birthday.