Shark Week? Seriously?

I was perusing along my Facebook page over the weekend when I came across my friend Dave’s Facebook status, all excited about the fact that we were in the beginning throes of Shark Week 2009. My friend Dave lives in Orlando with his beautiful wife Vickie, their baby Mason, and baby-in-the-oven… along with Gracie the faithful family Dalmatian. I suppose since Dave & Company live in Florida, one gets more excited about Shark Week than say those of us who are living in middle Tennessee. Sharks just aren’t that big a deal.

I can take or leave Shark Week. I may even be surfing along the television channels and momentarily stop on the Discovery Channel to watch some huge, frenzied eating machine jump out of the surf and chomp down on its prey. Whatever. My problem with Shark Week?

Well. It is my birthday week.

That’s right ladies and germs… my birthday is fast approaching. I am getting older, and it is likely that my brothers will enjoy ribbing me about this fact. It’s okay. I can take that in stride. But… to have my birthday correlate with Shark Week is bothering me somewhat, and I cannot for the life of me, figure out why.

Maybe it is that some sharks have rather silly names. Everyone has heard of the Tiger Shark or the Hammerhead Shark (the only shark I can actually pick out of a line up!) and of course, the Great White Shark (thanks Steven Spielburg). But did you know there was a Cookie Cutter Shark? I imagine it floats around the great blue deep wearing a frilly apron and oven mitts.

Or, there is the Silky Shark. Do you think it longingly wishes it posed for Victoria’s Secret? But, because it over-indulgenced on that baby seal, it has been shunned as being too hippy?

I think I like the Gulper Shark best. I can see it stopping by the closest 7-11 to grab a Big Gulp of freshly brewed seawater.

Maybe it is because these animals are removing the focus of my yearly celebration from… well… me! Or maybe it is because my birthday is now sandwiched between Shark Week and ELVIS Week.

Makes me worry that I have something in common with sharks and Elvis. I swim. I can sing. But I don't want to thrash about and eat baby seals and I don't want to die on the potty of a drug overdose. But that's just me.

So, go ahead and celebrate sharks and Elvis in the days to come. I am going to slink away somewhere with friends and overindulge in chocolate and be lavished upon in my own way.