It’s officially Winter in London now. I can’t say it’s any worse than winter in Canada and I really don’t miss all the snow, but the air is crisper, the chill seems to get through your scarf no matter how you tie it, fairy lights are up all over the city, and I am fighting my urge to play Christmas music as loud as I can almost daily.
December for me is always a countdown to two things; Christmas, and my birthday. I’m going home to Canada for Christmas this year and so my countdown to the holiday is doubly exciting, but since I moved to London I harboured a secret fear that my birthday wouldn’t turn out as grand as I wanted it to be.
I’m not shy of the fact that I’m the kind of person who likes attention. My birthday is the one time of the year where I get to reasonably say that everything is all about me. Last year I turned 24, I had multiple celebrations and an entire Birthday Week dedicated to celebrating the fact that I am on the earth. This year is the big 25, a quarter of a century, so it’s reasonable to think that this year should be Big. But when I moved to England I didn’t know that many people, I thought my birthday would be one huge reminder of the fact that all my friends are in Canada. Now? I’m not so sure.
This year I get Birthday Month. One whole month, one (or two) celebrations every weekend, and I feel like the luckiest person in the world. My birthday isn’t a reminder of how far away my friends are. It’s a reminder that I have friends all over the world.
December is going to Rock.