Too Old for Birthdays
In my family, birthdays have always been a big deal. When I was growing up, the birthday person always got to decide what was for dinner, always got the cake of their choice (except for that one time I wanted a cherry cheesecake and my mom said no because it had “too many calories” – thanks for the fat-shaming, Mom!), and my dad would always get the camcorder out and record the opening of gifts, which were invariably wrapped in the Sunday comics. I always looked forward to my birthday.
I will never forget my 15th. My friends threw me a surprise party at the home of my best friend, Cassie. I walked in and there was everyone I loved, smiling at me, standing around an ice-cream cake (my favorite) from the local shop. We had dinner (I do not remember what) and then went to see Vanilla Sky. The movie was terrible, but I didn’t care because it was otherwise a perfect day, filled with my favorite things and favorite people.
As an adult, my birthdays, for the most part, have been disappointing, and I think it’s because I keep trying to chase the feeling I had that day, twenty-three years ago. Every year, I hope, perhaps foolishly, for a birthday as epic as that one. I hope that all of my favorite people will make a fuss over me. I hope for enthusiastic “happy birthday” messages and surprise parties. I hope to go out for dinner and drinks and do my favorite things with all my favorite people. If there’s ice cream cake, all the better. :)
This week, I turned 38, and once again, my birthday was, overall, disappointing. There were bright spots, of course – my husband bought me flowers (which my cats are now determined to eat), my coworkers took me out for lunch, and I had some delicious pizza – but still, as always, something was missing. I realize that, as adults, we are all busy and spread apart; not everyone has the time or energy to go out to celebrate (particularly if it’s a weeknight), some people forget, and others simply don’t care. Perhaps there is an invisible age threshold that, once crossed, demands one stops caring about one’s birthday and treats it as just another day. Perhaps I’ve unknowingly crossed that threshold and desiring epic birthday celebrations is now considered not only childish, but selfish. Perhaps I am just too old for birthdays.
I must also consider the possibility that what I have actually been chasing since I turned 15 is the feeling of love and validation I felt when I walked into that room full of smiling faces. Indeed, there must be some truth to this, for every year without fail I find myself scrolling Facebook to see who left me birthday greetings. I can’t help it. Each message from a friend or family member wishing me well is akin to an acknowledgement that I am allowed to exist, that it is OK for me to take up space in this world. One message I received the other day was from a friend who literally told me “I am glad you exist”, and honestly, I do not understand why more people don’t say this to one another.
I am well aware that depending on others for this type of validation is dangerous, but despite the fact that I have come a long way toward learning to love myself in the last eight years or so, it certainly helps to know that others do, too. So yes, I suppose that’s a big part of why I look forward to my birthday each year.
In any case, the fact remains: I create unrealistic expectations for my birthday that no one could possibly fulfill, and I inevitably end up breaking my own heart. That’s exactly what happened this year, and I now sit firmly in my annual post-birthday depression, where I will withdraw into my books and my writing until such time that I can stop convincing myself that I am not worthy of love – or cake.