The daffodils are popping, the pollen is plotting, and somewhere in the background, the calendar whispers: May is coming. Which means one thing—it’s my birthday month.

Yes, I’m that person. I stretch my birthday into a soft, full-length feature film, with previews starting mid-April. Two weeks out and I’m already mentally lighting the birthday candles and humming my own theme music (equal parts Gloria Gaynor and Frank Sinatra, naturally).

Last year, I treated myself to some key gifts. You know, meaningful things. Necessary things. Delightfully unnecessary things disguised as necessary. I felt accomplished, adored… by myself. And that’s the best kind of love, right?

But this year? I’m stumped. 
I don’t need a new phone. 
I don’t need new shoes. 
(But let’s be honest, when has “need” ever stopped a good pair of boots from calling my name?)

Truth is, I don’t need much at all. 
What I need is rest. 
What I crave is relaxation. 
What I desperately desire is a psychic Tupperware system where I can compartmentalize my life. Pop a lid on the chaos. Keep the stress fresh, airtight, and out of reach until I say so.

I need an invisible box that only lets the good stuff in—sunshine, dog cuddles, bread pudding, maybe a kind word or two. Everything else? Kindly see yourself out.

Or maybe what I really need is… a genie. 
A personal boundary-setting, wish-granting, vacation-booking genie who gently slaps the phone out of my hand when I start checking work emails or Twitter (sorry X) at midnight. 

Okay, fine. Not realistic. 
(But if you know a genie…)

So maybe I’ll just go window shopping on life this year. No pressure. No wish list. No perfectly curated gift guides. Just me, browsing experiences and possibilities, seeing what sparkles under the spring light.

Maybe I’ll surprise myself. 
Maybe I’ll buy a hammock and actually lie in it. 
Maybe I’ll wander into a bookstore and fall in love with an idea. 
Maybe I’ll write something silly, something sacred, or both. 
Maybe I’ll just take afternoon nap without guilt.

Whatever it is, it’ll be mine. 
Because May isn’t just a month. 
It’s a reminder that I get to be—and become—exactly what I need.