Tomorrow, I turn forty-one. Which means, statistically, something will either break, catch fire, go missing, bleed, ghost me, explode, or die.
No need to sugarcoat it. The birthday curse is real. I don’t care if you’re religious, spiritual, or just one of those people who puts rose quartz in their bra and calls it healing. I’m an atheist. I believe in logic. I believe in consequences. I believe that prayers go unanswered because no one’s listening.
And still—this curse?
It’s been punctual since the Reagan administration.
Let’s review the history:
- Age 8: Dove off a pool float and broke my nose on a rogue diving board.
- Age 13: Our electricity went out during my party and came back only after everyone left.
- Age 17: My dog died. Yes. On my birthday.
- Age 24: I was arrested. Not for anything scandalous—just the kind of bureaucratic nonsense that makes the DMV feel like a trauma trigger.
- Age 30: Phone screen shattered before I even left the house.
- Age 34: My TV fizzled into a horizontal rainbow while I was watching Cake Boss. (Insult to injury.)
- Age 36: I chipped a tooth on a fork. Just a regular fork. Nothing fancy.
- Age 40: Amazing trip to San Francisco… followed by a week so cursed I expected the CDC to get involved.
I’ve learned not to make plans. Not to expect calls. Not to schedule joy. Birthdays are my personal Friday the 13th, but with less suspense and more paperwork.
And look, I get it. Everyone has bad days. But when your birthday is the recurring disaster slot on the Gregorian calendar? That’s not a coincidence. That’s choreography.
Every year, something goes wrong. Maybe small—maybe cosmic. But always specific. And always perfectly timed. It’s not just bad luck. It’s petty. Like the universe is a toxic ex who remembers exactly where you’re most fragile and just keeps texting, “Happy Birthday ;)”
This year, I’m bracing for one of the following:
- A pigeon flying directly into my windshield at 65 mph.
- My air fryer catching fire mid-tot.
- Getting stung by a bee that somehow knows.
- Every app on my phone logging me out at once. Including the authenticator.
- A single roach appearing inside my Diet Dr. Pepper bottle.
- Losing WiFi mid-Zoom while trying to pay a bill and dispute a different bill and also apply for a thing I don’t even want anymore.
- Amazon delivering someone else’s vibrator to my house, addressed to me, but with a note that says “you left this behind.”
- Daisy suddenly deciding she only poops on rugs now.
- All the pens in the house drying out at the same time, mid-check writing, like a synchronized performance of No Ink For You.
- Getting hit by a rogue Frisbee despite being nowhere near a park.
It doesn’t have to be fatal. It just has to be weirdly specific and ruinous in tone.
People love to say birthdays are “just another day,” and yet we throw parties, light candles, and post thirst traps like we’re auditioning for relevance. “Celebrate your life!” they say. Sure. Right after I vacuum glass out of my flip-flop and explain to a confused Apple rep why my phone thinks it lives in Uzbekistan.
Here’s the truth: birthdays are beautiful and hollow. Sacred and annoying. They mean absolutely nothing until something goes wrong—and then they mean everything.
We want to feel seen. Celebrated. Slightly less disposable. But when you carry a birthday curse, you also carry the suspicion that the day doesn’t love you back.
You start clocking patterns. Texts that never come. Cakes that fall. Weather that shifts the moment you put on a nice shirt.
Last year, I tried to outsmart it. Spent my 40th in San Francisco. It was stunning. Romantic, even. I ate well. I breathed better. I wore clothes that made me feel like someone with plans. The fog flirted. The city held me like a secret. I let myself think—just for a moment—maybe I’d broken the curse.
And then I got back to Texas.
Cue: credit card fraud, hotel drama, lost luggage, and a hotel staff tantrum so operatic I expected them to bow after.
The curse doesn’t mind a detour.
It’s patient.
It waits.
This year, there’s a twist: I’ll be sharing the day with Matthew. The love of my life. My anchor in chaos. The only man I’ve ever met who can look at me mid-meltdown and somehow make me laugh instead of spiral. The only person who can witness the curse’s petty nonsense and still choose to hold my hand instead of run.
Which means I’m hopeful.
But also—I’m sleeping with one eye open.
Because if history teaches us anything, it’s that the birthday curse loves an audience.
I’ve tried to rationalize it. I’ve tried to ignore it. But the truth is: the curse always knows.
You can armor yourself with logic.
You can light sage and recite statistics.
But you’ll still trip over your own sandal and land face-first into a cake someone brought to cheer you up.
It’s personal.
It’s petty.
It’s punctual.
And it has incredible comedic timing.
Final Thought:
Tomorrow, I turn forty-one. And something absurd will happen. Maybe funny. Maybe devastating. Maybe both. But I’ll be here. Holding Matthew’s hand, trying not to flinch at every flicker of the light. Still showing up. Still lighting the damn candle. Because even cursed people want to be seen. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—you find someone who sees you and knows where the fire extinguisher is.