Happy Birthday Jennifer Kreizman
“Happy birthday” is one of the most worn out phrases in the English language, or any language for that matter. Someone, somewhere, is told that phrase every morning. We grow up waiting for our birthdays to be magical, but all this does is set people up for disappointment. Your birthday has nothing to do with you; it’s out of your control. I believe that having a “happy birthday” is made easier when you have someone else there. Sixteen is supposed to be the year you wait for. Everyone tells you it’s one of the best years. So as one might expect, during the last ten seconds of me being fifteen, my blood was rushing as the timer in my head was ticking down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Was I really ready to be sixteen? Six. Five. Where did the year of being fifteen go? Four. Three. Two. One. Boom, sixteen. “Do you feel older?” my dad asked me. I had no idea what the socially acceptable answer to that is. “No.” The rest of the night was nothing short of disappointing. I sat in my bed staring at my ceiling and wondered why everyone overrates birthdays. So after a few minutes of crying aesthetically with blue mascara dripping down my face, I fell asleep. I didn’t expect much for the rest of my day, since even my brother had forgotten it was the 8th. The next morning, my favorite person texted me. Though I had to sit on the hot, packed six train, I sat with a smile on my face. We met up at Wall Street Grill and talked for over two hours. They were the best hours of my life. We talked about everything and everyone we knew and made fun of the people we couldn’t stand. Maybe sixteen wasn’t so bad. Maybe birthdays didn’t suck too much. We ended up walking down by the water and just sat there and talked some more until, finally, we went back to her apartment and watched a movie. We stayed up
152 ~ Fog
