While rummaging through the archives of my family’s storage bins and helping mom unpack old summertime clothing I found a box labeled “Bradley/ Baby.” In it I made a discovery that shattered my very sense of self. Nestled between a moldy Beanie Baby and a hospital bracelet was The Baby Book. You know the one milestones, first words, tiny footprints, all the good stuff.
Except one very bad thing. According to this relic, I was born on May 17th.
Which was news to me, because all my life, I’ve celebrated my birthday on May 18th. That’s the date on every cake, every party invitation, and every poorly sung “Happy Birthday” from my tone-deaf relatives. But now, I was forced to confront a brutal question: Was my entire existence… off by a day?
My identity had just collapsed like a Jenga tower.
So I made a decision.
I now celebrate both days. That’s right. I have two birthdays. I’m twice as special and, by my own math, twice as old. Happy 38th to me! It turns out that the moment you claim two birthdays, your lower back starts hurting. I woke up the next morning with an inexplicable urge to price out lawn mowers and complain about humidity. Spiritually, I’m now a middle-aged man. Physically, I’m still 19. But socially? I’m the weird 38-year-old in your college class who brings a travel mug and asks the professor if the syllabus is “available in print.”
This is also a formal announcement: If you have ever given me a birthday gift, you now owe me double. Grandma, that means 19 more cards. Get scribbling.
I’m a Gen-Z Millennial Franksine.
Now, before anyone tries to explain this away with “Maybe your postpartum mom made a simple scrapbooking mistake,” I’d like to say: Impossible. My mother is perfect. She’s the best mom in the world and has the mug to prove it. And hospitals never mess up. That leaves only one explanation: two birthdays.
By age 10, I was technically 20. Which explains why middle school felt like a midlife crisis.
But there are perks. I can now rent a car, adopt a child, or walk into a Home Depot and feel something stir in my soul. Sure, adoption agencies might question my “technical” age, but I’ll simply show them my birth certificate and my baby book and let the existential dread do the rest.
Also, fun fact: The world’s oldest person lived to be 122. But with two birthdays a year, I only need to survive until 62 to beat that. That’s right, I’m coming for the crown, Jeanne Calment.
In the meantime, I’ll be over here sipping my herbal team groaning when I stand up, and debating if it’s too early to plant my hydrangeas. Though I may look like a college sophomore, my soul has joined AARP.
Happy Birthday to me. Twice.