Friday the 13th is a day so many people are scared of or hate for a number of reasons. Some blame astrology or superstition, some blame Hollywood writers, some have a history with the date and hate it above all others. I guess I sort of fit into that last group, but not really.
See, this Friday the 13th happens to be my birthday. While I won’t say if I was born on a Friday or not I will say that this has happened several times to me growing up. It didn’t use to be a big deal, until it was.
I don’t know that Dad ever liked the number thirteen. I can remember him throwing a fit and rescheduling my party one-year because thirteen kids had sent yes in answer to an rsvp request. For someone who was such a devout Christian he always seemed to put a lot of stock in superstition and wives tales. Still, after Mom died it just got worse.
See she was the one who always loved a party. She was our small town version of Candy Spelling and tried to make the simplest of get-togethers an event to remember. Some of my birthday themes were over the top by today’s standards, let alone twenty years ago. Dad always came and was a part of the festivities but he would have been much happier with smaller more intimate events. I realized later that was because he always felt that he had to be “on” for people and couldn’t show his real emotions. I couldn’t imagine having to always be guarded because you never knew when someone would take something you might do or say and use it against you that is until later.
After Mom died I tried to take up the banner where she left off. Decorating the estate for Christmas, birthday parties, baby showers, and fundraisers. I was an active member of Daughters of the American Revolution and Daughters of the Republic of Texas and of course I was the youngest active member. I guess Dad thought I was so good at planning parties and handling details that sometimes he forgot that I might not want to plan my birthday or buy my own Christmas presents.
Some people would probably be thrilled to get exactly what they wanted for their special days, but the joy is sucked out of it when there is no surprise waiting for you. So when I left home, I stopped celebrating my birthday. It wasn’t until a group of my friends in my new town figured out when my birthday was that I started celebrating it again, but in a much simpler way. A small intimate dinner with friends, no presents, no hoopla seemed like heaven. Then the only decision I had to make was where I wanted to go for dinner.
That’s how it was for many years, until this year. Dad called and tried to make plans with me and I didn’t feel any remorse when I told him no. See, I had other plans; I was spending my birthday with Roman. I had no idea where we’d go or what we’d do. Furthermore I didn’t care, but as long as I had Roman at my side my birthday would be perfect.
Who says Friday the 13th is unlucky.