Birthday Reflections: A Tale of Two Camps
My friend’s daughter just celebrated her seventh birthday, but unfortunately, it came with a side of sickness. She had a rough time last year too, and the year before that. “It’s as if she’s allergic to birthdays,” her mum confided in me. I can’t help but relate deeply to that sentiment.
This week marks my own birthday—a significant milestone, one that comes around only once every decade. People often inquire about my plans, and my cheerful response is… absolutely nothing! Yes, you read that correctly.
In all honesty, I rarely do much for my birthday. There seems to be a clear divide between those who revel in their special day and those who prefer to let it pass quietly. I genuinely believe that you can learn so much about a person based on which camp they belong to.
Oh, to possess the confidence and emotional resilience of a birthday enthusiast! To declare it your birth-week, or even stretch it into a birth-month. To compel everyone you know to join in on celebrations they might not be keen on, while blissfully ignoring any concerns about their boredom, resentment, or early morning commitments. The audacity to proclaim, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” to every person you encounter throughout the day! And to know precisely how to react when the crowd sings “Happy Birthday” to you, and to endure the prolonged cheer without a hint of discomfort.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I belong to the other camp—the non-celebrators, the ones who cringe and flush at the thought of attention. Birthdays have always made me feel sheepish about my very existence. Yet, I have thrown parties and gatherings over the years because, let’s face it, if you tell someone you’re doing nothing for your birthday, the reaction you receive is akin to announcing you’ve just committed a heinous crime. I succumbed to social pressure for my last major birthday, because everyone insisted, “Oh, you have to do something!” So, in a moment of weakness, I invited my friends to a rather intimidating, upscale restaurant, complete with a private dining room that screamed, “Who do I think I am?”
To say I enjoyed the evening would be an understatement; I reckon I relished a mere six percent of it, at best. The snooty staff were the epitome of unwelcoming, and the long table made conversation awkward. I watched as guests who had never met before awkwardly asked each other how they knew me, reminiscent of a wedding but devoid of the joyful distraction of nuptials. When the bill arrived, the maitre d’ laughed in my face at the thought of splitting it among 17 people and demanded full payment upfront. With shaking hands, I complied, of course adding a hefty tip in a futile attempt to teach him a lesson.
Then came the headache of the next day, grappling with complicated math while nursing a hangover and messaging my friends one by one to apologetically request their share. Imagine being asked to cough up for a meal you’ve just had, only to find yourself no longer hungry!
This year, I am determined to avoid the pitfalls of birthday pressure. Having learned from past experiences, I’ve decided to embrace the simplicity of low-key celebrations. Instead of throwing a big event, I’ll engage in a few small, intimate gatherings with different groups of friends. I owe it to myself to do what makes me happy because, after all, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. Tune in next week to see how I navigate the expected chaos of a surprise party—a prospect that fills me with both dread and curiosity.
