It's almost my birthday. Well, I think it is anyway. In the past few years there has been some question of when my birthday actually is, and how old I actually am. My parents have secrets. My parents tell me they met in January of 1969, had a whirlwind romance (gross), and got married in June because they couldn't stand to be apart. Then, as their story goes; in the fall of 1970, a full fifteen months after they got married, I was born. When I was a teenager I thought about the story a little more carefully. They met in January and got married in June....hmmmm. That's weird. Who gets married to someone they've only known for five months? Then I looked more closely at my mother's wedding dress. Empire waist. Hmm...
Interesting choice. Sure, it was in fashion in 1969, wasn't it? But still. See where I'm going with this? I suspect I was born in September of 1969 and not September of 1970. I could never get my parents to admit it though. In fact, whenever I bring it up (every year) they get a little impatient with me and tell me, "You were born in 1970, NOW DROP IT." Somebody doth protest too much, Mom and Dad.
The other birthday bombshell is that September 29 is not my real birthday. September 30 is. I learned that last year in an email from my dad:
Notice the defensiveness about the birth year? Interesting. Oh, and of course I didn't know until I turned 41 (42) when my birthday really was. They kept that secret for over forty years. That just makes me wonder what else I don't know about these mysterious people I call my parents. What else are they hiding???
Interesting choice. Sure, it was in fashion in 1969, wasn't it? But still. See where I'm going with this? I suspect I was born in September of 1969 and not September of 1970. I could never get my parents to admit it though. In fact, whenever I bring it up (every year) they get a little impatient with me and tell me, "You were born in 1970, NOW DROP IT." Somebody doth protest too much, Mom and Dad.
The other birthday bombshell is that September 29 is not my real birthday. September 30 is. I learned that last year in an email from my dad:
"Here's what I remember about your birthday. In September 1970-do the freaking math will you!........ You were born in a Catholic hospital in St. Cloud with nuns in attendance. Mom was in labor for over 24 hours and she passed out between labor pains. At one point she told the cute little red-headed nurse she wanted to go home. The nurse looked at me and said, "Do you want to take her home Mr. Lindahl?" I didn't. You finally popped out in your own good time and all was well except we missed some insurance deadline for coverage by an hour or two so the good old nuns changed the dates of your birth to get us the coverage we needed. You ended up costing us not much. Whew! You may have been born on the 30th of September but it was in 1970 NOT 1969. Sometimes you acted like a little bastard but you actually are not one. Happy birthday and legit or not, I love you! Dad"
Notice the defensiveness about the birth year? Interesting. Oh, and of course I didn't know until I turned 41 (42) when my birthday really was. They kept that secret for over forty years. That just makes me wonder what else I don't know about these mysterious people I call my parents. What else are they hiding???
Yep. They're aliens.
ReplyDeleteI wouldn't be surprised. Or spies. Or serial killers.
DeleteAlien serial killer spies! We're all screwed!
DeleteI think they were born in Kenya.
DeleteI know they were probably born in Kenya, but the question is, was I born in Kenya? All this mystery is really going to kill my chances at political office.
DeleteOMG LMAO!!!!!!!!
ReplyDelete