::regards the word ‘birthday’ with complete ambivalence::
The more birthdays I have, the less I’m really that bothered about them. On the one hand, this is because I am by nature an avoider of excess attention. On the other, yes, okay, it is kind of nice to have a whole day seemingly devoted to oneself.
One of the perks of being the keeper of the personnel information at work is that when the admin staff asks for the monthly birthday report so that they can inform the entire world that people are getting older, I can pull myself off the list before publication. We have a small contingent who really dig the whole birthday thing, and they love to deck out people’s cubicles and offices with celebratory foofaraw. They’re really good at it, actually. It always looks very festive and cheerful, but while I think that guerilla birthday decorating is a very nice gesture, I personally want nothing to do with it when my time comes around. It’s simply a personal preference. Another thing is the obligatory card, signed by the entire staff in an obligatory fashion--you know, add your message, cross out your name on the list, pass it to the next person. You sign them because you feel like you’re supposed to. I don’t want people to feel like they’re supposed to do anything to commemorate my natal day. It would be one thing if it was a small, quiet “Happy birthday!” from anyone who remembered, but that doesn’t seem to be an option. It’s all or nothing, feast or famine, over-the-top felicitations with confetti fountains or ::cricket noises::, and since those are my options I’ll opt for the insect choir every time.
There’s another facet to this, which is that for some reason everyone seems to feel slighted if you don’t let them make a fuss over you for your birthday, and I can complain about these people because I used to be these people. “OMG, you can’t not celebrate your birthday, that’s just wrong! We all want to do something!” Hang on, hold up, stop the presses--whose birthday is it, exactly? Oh, that’s right, it’s mine. Not yours. Mine. And I can do or not do anything that I want with it, thank you very much. I don’t understand why you think it’s my duty to let you celebrate my day in the way you want. That, my friends, is bass-ackward.
Also, a little side-note here to the people I’ve done this to in the past: I AM SO, SO, SO SORRY. I UNDERSTAND NOW.
Now, the upside of a birthday is, of course, that you get catered to a bit, and that can be a delightful experience--if the people doing it are attentive to your personal style of celebration. I once knew someone who loved the birthday limelight. She wanted to go to Chevy’s, wear the sombrero, and have the whole place sing to her. That gave her immense joy, and that is how she chose to mark the occasion. The last few years I’ve hosted a small-ish get-together with some close friends, snacks, booze, and Cards Against Humanity, and that was infinitely enjoyable to me. This year I’m going even smaller--it’s just going to be me and two ‘friends from the mists of time’ and we’re going to hang out and eat and drink and whatever else we feel like doing. Maybe we’ll go out. Maybe we’ll stay in. Maybe in our attempt to make pupusas we’ll burn the house down. Who knows? But whatever happens it will be low-key, and that’s just fine by me.
Oh, and cake. There will be cake. Cake or death. Not in the Eddie Izzard sense of choosing between “cake or death”, but rather in the sense of “there will be cake, or I’mma shank a bitch”.
I think maybe it’s a good thing that I’m making my own cake. (Chocolate with Nutella filling and Rainbow Chip icing. Because I’m a child.)
So yes, I’ve managed another trip around the sun. Things have happened. Things haven’t happened. I’ve learned things. I’m sure I’ve forgotten other things (though since I’ve forgotten them, I can’t really be sure, can I?). I’ve been new places and revisited old ones, made new friends and somehow miraculously managed to keep the ones I already had. I have written a lot of words. There have been changes and personal growth and whatever else is supposed to happen as one plods determinedly through this quagmire we call an existence. I have seen some shit, kids, but I’m still here. Well, most of the time, anyway.
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