In the Jewish religion, the days or weeks between the two holiest days of the year, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, serve as time to reflect back on the past year's wrongdoings and ask for God's forgiveness.
Year after year, I always know what my parents repent for - conceiving me approximately nine months before Yom Kippur.
The Jewish year is based on a lunar calendar, so while the holidays fall on the same date on the Jewish calendar each year, the dates are different on the Gregorian calendar.
The point of all of this is that every few years my birthday lands on Yom Kippur.
Now, while it might seem flattering to have your birthday considered a holy day, having to share your birthday with an already celebrated day takes the spotlight away from me - completely defeating the purpose of having a birthday in the first place.
But that's not the worst part. Yom Kippur isn't like other holidays because on Yom Kippur, you're not allowed to eat.
This particularly sucks because I have an extra special relationship with food. I eat it all the time, regardless of the occasion. When I'm hungry, I satiate with Kraft Mac 'n Cheese, and when I'm full, I strive for a victory lap of an ice cream sandwich (or sandwiches). When I aced my journalism midterm, I celebrated with some festive chips and salsa, and when I'm stressed about getting a job that pays a living wage, I fill up on free samples from William Sonoma to cut down on living expenses.
So, when my birthday falls on the one day of the year for me when food has no calories, on a day
where food is prohibited, chaos is bound to ensue.
The last time my birthday fell on Yom Kippur was exactly eight years ago, when I turned 14. I gave fasting my best shot to prove a positive role model for my younger brother and sister, but when I caught my mom munching on a bagel in the front hall closet, I felt reprieved of my holy duty and emptied most of the pantry into my stomach.
After sunset, when we were finally permitted to break the fast, the rest of my family was suspicious when I didn't go back for seconds. I tried to play it off like I just wasn't that hungry, but of course no one fell for that.
It wasn't until my sister went looking for the box of chocolate chip cookies we had bought yesterday that everyone figured out what I had done.
My nickname, the vulture,"" was given when I was a kid and still sticks with me today. When I turned five and my parents gave me the honors of cutting my cake for the first time, I cut it in half, keeping one half for myself and dividing the other into equal parts for all my guests.
While I lived at home, my brother and sister would tape notes onto their birthday party goody bags:
Dear Kiera,
Please don't eat this, it's mine. Mom bought some dried prunes. Maybe you could eat those instead?
Now in college, every few days I can expect to find half eaten bags of M&Ms or leftover Tutto Pasta on my bed when my roommates don't want them anymore. Even though I object to being treated like a human vacuum, the food is always gone within an hour.
It's like my bed is a black hole, leave your leftovers there and they'll disappear. No questions asked.
The point of fasting on Yom Kippur is to eliminate distraction from repenting. Maybe that works for some people, but personally, when I'm hungry, I'm not repenting my sins, I'm daydreaming of unlimited Ian's Pizza.
My birthday is in two days and for the first time in eight years, I share it with Yom Kippur. I don't think I'm going to fast this year, but that won't stop me from gorging during my break-the-fast dinner with my friends. And there sure as hell better be cake and ice cream to follow.
If you want to take Kiera to lunch on her birthday, e-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
