My mom suggested that I change my birthday to my Chinese lunar calendar birthday.
"So we’re celebrating your birthday on September 17," she said.
Granted, if anybody has the actual authority to relocate your birthday, it’s the person who gave birth to your ass. But I just brushed it off as one of those wacky things that Korean moms do, like try to set you up with ugly people with good earning potential. Or tell you that shaking your leg shakes off luck as if it were some kind of fairy dust.
Of course who knows how many more birthdays it’ll take before people stop walking up to me, somberly put their hand on my arm and say, "Your birthday’s on 9/11?" Then shake their head when I shrug yes.
But that’s the day I was born. And if it happens to be permanently linked to the most tragic day in U.S. history, then well, that’s how it’s going to be. Besides, after your 22nd year, the ensuing birthdays are all tinged with a little sadness anyway, are they not?
Anyway, I’d already celebrated my birthday with friends this past Saturday with the requisite dining, drinking and dancing (I know it wasn’t intentional, but one of the gifts I got was luggage.). And we all know now that my family birthday celebration is September 17. But tonight my girlfriend is still taking me out to dinner – just like she did last year.
We were just sitting there, eating our steaks in kind of a daze, while across from us, a table of three Good Ol’ Boy types were filling themselves with red meat and cabernets. Suddenly one of them just up and said it: "Fuck the terrorists if they’re going to try to keep me from enjoying a good porterhouse."
[A coworker just printed this out and gave it to me. Ya gotta love The Onion. Click here to read.]
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