You can't be annoying today. It's my birthday.

“Are you 50?!”

No, I’m not. I’m also not 45. Or 35. Or 20. Kids are obsessed with finding out your true age. No matter what age you tell them you are, they think you are old. I could be 16 and they would be shocked. Though, I remember being in 4th grade and thinking that the students in 8th were so very, very wise. Little did I know that they were just as immature as I was. If not more so. Hormones do that to people.

Kids give you a free pass on your birthday. They can’t be annoying. They can’t be mean to each other. They can’t be themselves, basically. They understand it’s an “important” day for you- though, 26 is very much a non-milestone- and will leave their idiosyncrasies and oddities aside. They are shockingly kind and giving, too. They bring cupcakes, sing you songs, and are the polar opposites of who they are for most of the year. Basically, they are pod people for a 24 hour stretch, and that is a-okay with me. One year, a student brought me a pair of sweet Italian loafers. It was a sweet gesture, even though the kid was one of the most annoying people I have ever encountered.

What I find a little amusing about all of this is that the students haven’t a clue of how teachers actually celebrate their birthdays. This morning, one of them asked, “Did you have a nice dinner with family and friends and eat cake?”

You have to say, “Oh yes. It was a very lovely birthday!” while patting them on the head and rustling their hair as Paula Cole’s “I Don’t Want to Wait” softly plays in the background.

But what actually happened is that you got wasted. Like, really wasted. And so did your friends. And your friend’s friends. You also had several pictures taken of you pretending to make out with a Christmas tree. You friends slapped you on the butt with empty boxes posing as gifts. You nearly vomited on the fresh snow Jack Frost brought to NYC this weekend. You danced suggestively with a singing telegram performer dressed as a giant hot dog your friends hired for you. You then got further intoxicated at a gay bar where someone asked you if you had any coke (“I do NOT, thank you very much!”). You also fell asleep on the R train back to Brooklyn because no cab would dare make the trek to an outer borough. “How did I end up in BAY RIDGE?!” you screamed at 4am.

How did you end up there, indeed.

So yes, children. It was a lovely birthday. Now please, take your seats, follow my instructions, and please, PLEASE be good to me. I’m old, you know.