Birthday Blues

I rarely have good birthdays anymore. I have always found them introspective--a survey of what I have and have not accomplished in yet another year. It's the one day I always journal, practically every year since I was eight you'll find an entry in diaries, notebooks, blogs on March 19. Being a "Type A," an ENFJ, a "green," I am a perfectionist, unrelenting in my personal goals and expectations. Most years I fall short.

This year, woefully so.

I didn't blog or talk about this most of the day because I really thought I'd dealt with all this the day before, on Sunday, a miserable unyielding jag of weeping and irritation at my lack of goal achievement. I figured by the real day, I'd be all right.

Not so. I spent the day with more minutiae, emails and random comments by people who neither knew nor likely cared that I was wide open and vulnerable. They didn't know this day was worse than others to express concerns about pictures, or tell me how poorly I am running a web site, or complain about something small, or forget.

By the time dinner came around, poor Kurt was left to deal with runny Deanna, crying pretty nonstop, and even Hula Hut, rum laden Hulalas, and creamy jalapeno dip couldn't fix it. But, as I well know, nothing external can. It all comes from living with myself and what I can or maybe can't accomplish. I'm only human, and like most humans, I frequently fail.