From the moment we are pushed out of our mother’s vagina, ugly and crying, we are taught the value of the birthday. For one day a year, you are given abusively divine power to celebrate and spoil yourself. But shouldn’t we be praising the women who consciously agreed to give life to a seven-pound brick after it lived inside her for nine months rent-free?
But recently, birthdays have not been as simple, or pleasing, as cake and clowns. As I write this, I am fast approaching the 21st celebration of me. Although I am really looking forward to making my next #tbt caption “To the best nights we’ll never remember #lol,” I can’t help but feel a twinge of unease as I think of getting older.
This anxiety surrounding my birthday celebration is nothing new. There is only so far my low expectations can take me anymore. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never again receive the gift of a pony party — though if this actually happened, it would of course be documented on YouTube. You can see why my hopes for this holiday are kept low.
Instead, as you grow older, the birthday celebration seems to be less about you and more about how you plan to share it with others — in the form of love, friendship and good times. The contemporary version of the goody bag has become the open bar — both of which are certainly joyous — or maybe prepaid dinners with pork belly and steak-frites. Despite my frugal frustrations and nightmarish thoughts concerning my upcoming birthday, sharing myself is exactly what I plan to do.
Our lives would be completely without purpose if it were not for selfless giving of our attention, time, money, tears, words and even thoughts. So, yeah, let’s celebrate me — but let’s also celebrate the crazed suckers who have been tricked into being my friends despite my quirks. Then again, maybe it’s just the open bar that keeps ‘em comin’.
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