I hate the pressure of birthdays.

Everyone asks, “what are you doing?” as if you’re supposed to have an elaborate, day, evening, weekend, week or even month planned. (Side note: August has been pretty awesome so far.)

I always give in to the pressure, even if it’s tough to plan a big party over Labor Day weekend. I can’t just let the day pass like it’s any other Sunday. It’s the 31st! I have to celebrate it if only for that reason.

I decided on Wednesday to hold a BBQ/tardeada at my parent’s house. Maybe I’ll pass out last year’s birthday activity sheet made by Rio. Sadly, I won’t have a bouncy castle. Sorry kids.

Invitation by DB. He’s a [patient] Photoshop pro.

Way back when I started college ten years ago (!), I did what everyone else did: look myself up in the online directory. I wanted to see what information was listed so I could change it if needed, you know since I had so many potential stalkers.

I searched my first and last name and found something shocking and completely unexpected. I was not the only Cynthia Mosqueda on campus. Gasp!

I was upset for the rest of the day. I wanted to kick someone, preferably my tocaya (namesake). Of course, I had no reason to kick her. In fact, she didn’t have my name, I had her name. She was a senior and I was a freshman (I’ve never met her, but my section leader in band knew her). I thought about complaining to my parents about their name choice. Perhaps they should have named Veronica like they originally planned. They dropped the name when some friends chose the name for their daughter born just a few months before me. At least then, I wouldn’t have found my tocaya for another 8 years or so until I met my cousin Julio’s fiancé and they got married. Up until college, I’d never met a Mosqueda that was not related to me. I thought my last name was rather rare and I liked it that way.

I quit my pouting after a day or two. A few months later, la tocaya was gone from the directory as she graduated and moved on. All was right in the world and I was the only Cynthia M in the directory… for a while.

Last fall I started to get a bit freaked out by some comments made online. I wanted to make sure the harassment didn’t move beyond creepy comments, so I double checked my entry on the campus directory.

She was back. And worse, la tocaya was in my department. Since I’m hardly ever at the ed school and she’s in a different program, I’ve never met her. After a conversation with Oso about finding another white David Sasaki on Facebook, I decided to look up my tocaya.

Not only does she have my name, she’s also cuter than me. Damn. At least I’ll be Dr. Cynthia Mosqueda before her.

While I was out this afternoon, I stopped by my favorite café on the Westside, The Spot, to get a quick pick me up after a long day. Aside from the drinks and free wi-fi, I like the Spot because the owner is friendly and always notices when I haven’t stopped by in a while. And I like being missed. I ordered my usual, a chai latté, to go.

Once back in the car, I turned on the radio and listened intently as NPR’s All Things Considered reported on Barack Obama winning the North Carolina primary. I smiled and hoped that he’d have a good showing in Indiana.

A few minutes later, I was in downtown Culver City. Traffic slowed down because of the farmer’s market on Main Street. I briefly thought about shopping for fruit and veggies there, but opted against it because I was still wearing my yet-to-be broken in brown flats. I drove on to the next block where I parked at Trader Joe’s.

While shopping in Trader Joe’s for organic strawberries, tomatoes, carrots, bananas and other necessities I listened to a podcast of one of my favorite episodes of This American Life on my iPod. I’ve listened to the What I Learned from Television episode at least four times. Twice this week.

I left Trader Joe’s with two brown paper bags (I always forget my canvas tote when I go grocery shopping) full of groceries and headed home.

When I got home, I turned on my trusty MacBook. I checked my email and sent out announcements about the mujer issue of Puro Pedo Magazine.

What does this say about me?

I tend to develop crushes rather easily.

But all crushes are not equal. There’s the superficial crush, the mini-crush and full-blown crush.

98% of my crushes fall in to the superficial category. I decide I have a crush on him because I like his hair, shoes, eyes or smile. It’s surface level. Of course, some superficial crushes are not surface level, but they’re equally fleeting. Those are the intellectual crushes, a subset of the superficial crush category. I admire the words he uses, the ideas he states so eloquently, or his artistic or musical talents. Of course, these can be combined. He can have a great smile, be brilliant and have great taste in music and films.

But those all go away quickly and I’m left with a cool guy friend. Well, most superficial crushes go away.

The rest — 2% mind you — stay on as mini-crushes (also known as baby crushes). Mini crushes suck.

You know that scene in Clueless where Cher realizes she likes Josh? She’s terribly awkward and self-conscious? Well, that’s what my interactions with a mini-crush are like.

I like a mini-crush for the reasons listed above with the superficial crushes. The difference is that the mini-crush actually lasts longer. I try my best to keep a mini-crush from evolving into a full-blow crush. I do this mainly by trying to ignore all of my mini-crushes cool qualities. I even add some negatives in to the mix, if I can find them. The best crush diversion tactic is inaction. Taking any sort of action is a bad idea.

Of course… somewhere along the line, a mini-crush survives. I see past the negatives and the bad ideas. The mini-crush evolves to a full-blown crush.

This last type is rare, and it’s even worse than the mini-crush ’cause that’s when I forget about logic and do something crazy. You know, like actually admit how I feel.

On the flight to Dallas, I took advantage of my free drink tickets and ordered a beer. The flight attendant, a young black woman, asked for my ID.

I had it ready. I’m carded so often, that it’s normal for me to show my ID whenever I order alcohol. She looked for the year. 1980. That puts me well over 21.

“You look like you’re 10 years old,” she exclaimed in a surprised yet fake tone.

I didn’t say anything and took my ID back.

I know I look young. I hear that all the time. However, most times people simply say “you look younger” and leave it at that. That’s fine. However telling me I look like a ten year old — even if you are exaggerating for effect — is simply rude. It’s like telling someone, “wow, you look really tired today.” Even if it’s true, the person on the other end of that comment is gonna think, “wow, I guess I look like shit today.”

Here’s my advice: next time you meet one of us deceptively young looking people, feel free to express that you’re surprised about our actual age. Do not tell us we look like we’ve yet to hit puberty. After all, some of us probably already have a complex about looking young, not being taken seriously at work or having our competence questioned due to our youthful visage.