My birthday falls weird this year. Half way across the world, the actual moment of my birth falls on a different day. When my friends take me out to dinner, my family won’t even think of it as my birthday yet. When my mother relieves that afternoon visit to the hospital, I’ll already be tucked into bed, my day over, ready to face the next three hundred and sixty-four days until I’m another year older. Does that make me older or younger than I think I am?
Time is never more relative then on a birthday fourteen timezones from home.