August Birthday Blues
Birthdays are disappointing. After I’m done assuring everyone around me that I don’t give a crap about celebrating, I have myself a good cry. One more year of miss-the-mark attempts by people who love me most to celebrate my inevitable march to the grave.
As a child these celebrations were sad affairs that had little to do with me, and more with my parents screaming at each other about not celebrating the way I wanted to, though no one bothered to ask me what that might be. They didn’t believe in gifts or guilt free adulation and it soured me on the whole business.
Boyfriends and friends were no better, though they tried and made some great attempts. When I was 12 my summer gymnastics team threw me a surprise party. That was fun. And impromptu and guilt free. I’ve been chasing that experience since, and all it was was an extra Kit Kat split between eight girls and a couple of coaches in a sweat soaked gym. Hard to go back to. Even if I wanted.
The valiant, plentiful and heartfelt attempts to celebrate my existence, miss the mark because I keep the target moving, falsely claiming I have no need and few desires. For anything. Ever. Never have. Never will.
Come the height of summer, the birthday pressure is on and I have no idea what I want. I see where this is totally on me, but how come they can’t differentiate when to actually listen to me, from the times they should ignore me? More importantly, why can’t I? Year after year, I insist they dance at the end of some fucked up marionette string where we all wind up collapsed and in a darkened suitcase.
The pressure turns me into a whiney baby for wanting my name written in buttercream on a cake. By the end of the evening I feel selfish and fat for not knowing I’m loved without a cake I only half wanted, or wished was carb free. It’s not like I’d ask them to count candles or even make my favorite from the box, like I would do for them.
Historically, happy birthday without an inward hemorrhaging of emotion--visible or otherwise has been the exception.
Day-to-day there’s a big show about wanting my opinion they may or may not ignore. But on that one day in humidity drenched August, after the planet has taken another spin around the sun with me on it, I’m supposed to call the shots and I’m paralyzed.
When my kids were little, I asked them not to argue on my birthday which made me over-the-moon happy as they succeeded. Mostly. I’m sure they’d agree to it now, but since they’re adults it’s lost its sparkle. I’m just thrilled they’ll both be home to give me a hug. I have nothing snarky about that, only a smile an ocean wide and a futile hope this essay is all news to them.
Usually, my husband brings home a piece of jewelry which is spot on. This is a Herculean task considering my taste is concentrated on cheap costume pieces in interesting, suggestive shapes.
About ten years ago I realized I wouldn’t know what to make for my own birthday meal if forced. Then I did. A hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and nuts. But someone has to be responsible. Or they used to.
For as pliable as I am, I’m tough to please. On my birthday, part of getting it right has become shouldering the disappointment, the same way that a miniature golf game among prepubescents inevitably dissolves into tears.
There’s a pressure that makes it into another sort of New Year. A different calendar no one is obliged to follow but me. Last year I was going to get out of the fray by traveling all over the country to see my old friends but the pandemic, a new house and a dying dog--in other words, life--cut that tour short.
I’m a hair younger than 51 now with two new puppies at home, and both the original ones about to go back to school. This year I’m going to take it easy and see what comes. Assuming they wake up early enough, they’ll give me a big hug as I head to a job I’m loving, and I won’t have to listen to them argue over who made mommy cry again this year.
Every year, no matter how painful, has brought me a new perspective on the one before, a stack I’ve built tall enough to climb up and see over. That gift is well worth riding this planet around as long as it will have me or the new strain of polio doesn’t get me.
I’ll say I don’t want to make a big deal of it. But now you know. Bring it on and happy birthday to me!