It was my birthday last week. I love my birthday, but it never really turns out how I imagine. For my 12th birthday, I asked for Donnie Wahlberg, to no avail. For my 18th birthday, my girlfriends tried to plan a surprise party for me, which I ruined mid-car ride to the surprise, trying to get my mom to take me home, instead of to the party. For my 21st birthday, it was the middle of the week, so I had to go out for my first legal drinks with my COMM 211 acquaintances, shuffling home in the snow at midnight, because it was pretty lame as far as 21st birthdays go. For my 30th birthday, I planned my own celebration with family and friends. Hoping to drink and eat the night away with everyone, I ended up the designated driver. Where is the excitement and thrill we felt as children?