Rule #1: select your parents well. Mine weren’t rich, nor especially happy, but they dealt fairly with their children.
Rule #2: pick your birth date carefully. Being a Valentine baby led to all sorts of embarrassment when I was young. My family would go out to dinner on my birthday, and my father would say to the waitress, “Look at the wonderful valentine my wife gave me [xx] years ago.” I would duck under the table at that point. On the other hand, it was great having a birthday that fell on a holiday that is celebrated with candy and chocolate, and I have the cavities to prove it!
Rule #3: pick your birth time carefully. I raced a blizzard and won, with my mother going into labor and arriving at the hospital before the storm hit. Ever since, I have had a special relationship with bad weather. I’ve had lightning strike within twenty feet of me without harming me. I’ve outraced a rainstorm on a bicycle near Angla on the island of Saaremaa in Estonia. These events definitely prove I’m special, but I’m not sure whether that’s “special” as in “fortunate,” or “special” as in “stupid.”
Rule #4: Returning to the place of your birth is really overrated when it was in a hospital. It becomes even less appealing when the hospital is converted into a home for disturbed teenagers. Particularly when, as happened once in my early twenties, I was plagued with migraines and taking even more drugs than the teenagers were.
Rule #5: If there’s a person listed on Wikipedia for your birth date, but you’ve never heard of him or her, it’s like the date is still reserved for you to make it, eventually.