My birthday is kind of a big deal. I’m obnoxious about it, really.

When I was four, my parents made the mistake of bringing an almost-five-year-old to the happiest place on earth: Disney World. I spent the entire trip asking about my birthday party that would take place back in Louisiana at the end of the week. I was looking forward to homemade chocolate cake and the Happy Birthday song (which I now hate) and my nanny.* I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, shut up about it.

And now I’m 25.

Twenty years later, I still felt that same kind of excitement surrounding my birthday. Well that mixed will a little bit of nausea.

When I confessed my slight-maybe-I’m-a-little-nervous-about-25 fear to my friends (who are all older than I am), they struggled not to laugh or roll their eyes. Yeah…that’s a big one they said, all bless-her-heart-like.