I was born on December 25 – yes, that’s right, Christmas Day. The nurses who were there at the momentous occasion even brought my naked, slimy body to my mom in a stocking.
For the past 24 years, my D.O.B. has been an endless source of momentary fascination for anyone who's sneaked a peek at my ID. First they react with some exclamation (“But that’s Christmas!”) followed with a question (“Do people give you one present or two?”) and finally they give me the pity stare as I leave Trader Joe’s, bottle of wine clutched to my chest.
Don’t get me wrong, having your birthday on Christmas isn’t all bad. I always had a unique fact to share about myself on the first day of school, I’ll never have to worry about working on my b-day, and everyone around me is supposed to be happy that day. But some years it really, really sucks. Mostly because I keep getting upstaged by the big guy upstairs, Jesus.
I come from the kind of family where every Christmas Eve, my grandma set out a nativity instead of a Christmas tree. And at midnight she brought out the terrifyingly-adult looking baby Jesus which we all had to kiss before we could open our presents. And I can’t count how many times the clock struck midnight on my birthday just as I was being ushered into a church pew for midnight mass.
I went to Catholic school for high school, and I’m pretty sure all the nuns thought I was the Antichrist. This was possibly because I refused to tuck my shirt in for four years, but more likely because they couldn’t deal with the fact that I shared my birthday with The Savior.
Luckily, I no longer have to endure any form of worship on my birthday, but that doesn’t mean that it’s gotten any better. I could tell you about my 21st birthday, but that’s a pitiful tale for another time. (Hint: sad, sad people get drunk at bars in small LA suburbs on Christmas Eve.)
So, I’ve pretty much come to terms with the fact that Jesus stole my thunder. And I’ve stopped giving my mother shit for that one year she threw me and my younger sister a joint birthday party in June. Honestly, these days, my biggest gripe about my birthday is that I spend it in LA while my boyfriend spends it in the Bay, which basically leaves me sexless on my birthday. (They wouldn’t have written a song about it if it wasn’t important). Otherwise, it’s just part of who I am.
There is one big positive about having a Christmas birthday, though. Maybe it’s just something my friends do when they’re drinking, but I know the conversation will inevitably turn into comparing the celebrities with whom we all share our birthdays. I wait until the very end, and I smile, because I know I’ll win. No one beats Jesus.
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