Tomorrow is my birthday! I will be 33 years old. Wow. I remember when I had a notebook in which I counted all the days until I turned sixteen (I was twelve at the time and thought sixteen would be a magical age–how wrong I was and how many days I had before I found that out!). It’s almost hard to fathom my age or the “fine lines” appearing on my face or the fact that I’ve got kids and a husband and pets to feed. The older I get, the more complicated my feelings about birthdays become.
So why not write about it? And why not drag you along with me?
That’s our writing prompt for today: birthdays. Whatever it means to you, whatever ideas it conjures. At least five minutes. Go.
Ginny never cared about birthdays. Never liked cake or ice cream, never wanted a party. Streamers and balloons were a waste of money, as were parties, and all of it bad for the environment. The landfills were full enough already, she said, without packing them full of crepe paper.
Still, when her birthday rolled around, Patrick would plan. This would be the year, he thought. The year he found the right surprise, swept her off her feet, gave her the best day of her life and other such cliches. He liked cliches. They were well known for a reason. And he liked tradition, which Ginny claimed was the same thing. It was nice to do the same thing each year at the same time. For his own birthday he always had a chocolate cake with white frosting, striped candles from the grocery store, and hamburgers for dinner. He’d been doing it since he was five years old and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
But it wasn’t that way for Ginny.
Sorry. That was kind of awful–oh well! What are writing exercises for?
Share yours in the comments!