Crappy Birthday To Me
Sun Herald
Sunday October 12, 2003
IT was my birthday last week and lord how it sucked. I can confidently say that I am impossible to please on my birthday. I'm embarrassed when everyone makes a fuss, mortified when they don't.
It started out OK , waking up on Hayman Island where we'd spent a blissful week-long holiday. But after quickly packing and jumping on the boat back to the airport, it all went pear-shaped. You see, I hate flying. Hate it. Loathe, fear and despise it. Usually I take lovely little pills that my doctor prescribes to take away the paralysing anxiety. But somehow, I'd lost my pills and had to white-knuckle it, the mere thought of which turned me into the birthday bitch from hell.
And in case having to do the thing I hate most on this happy day was not bad enough, the universe decided to rub salt into my neurotic wounds by throwing a whole bunch of turbulence my way and sitting me across the aisle from a little boy who was vomiting. Good times.
But the icing on the birthday cake was perhaps the fact that no one at work remembered to organise me a cake. This may not seem like a big deal, but in my workplace we take cake very seriously. Any excuse or none is grounds for cake. And on birthdays, tradition dictates that every member of staff (even the bemused work-experience girl) gets cake and an off-key chorus of Happy Birthday. If you're not in the office on the day, the cake ceremony happens on your return.
So naturally, when I arrived at work the day after my birthday, I was expecting cake.
Every time I went to a scheduled meeting, I'd think: ``This isn't really going to be a meeting. It's just a ruse to get me out of the office so everyone can gather to surprise me!"
``Awww, how sweet," I thought, feeling all warm and fuzzy about the fuss that was going to be made. As the day marched on, I kept preparing my surprised face but my meetings kept turning out to be meetings. No cake. No singing. No flowers. The only surprise turned out to be that everyone forgot.
In the lift on the way home I bumped into a fellow Libran, staggering under the weight of birthday flowers, but the only thing weighing me down was the little black rain cloud over my head. Interestingly, by the time I got home, my misery had morphed into a perverse enjoyment of the whole pathetic debacle. I started to take twisted pleasure from my birthday rating lower than even my lowest expectations. There was also a small voice in the back of my head pointing out that I was being a spoilt brat and suggesting I grow up immediately.
I've always had a tortured relationship with my birthday and apparently I'm not alone. It's not the getting older part that makes me miserable, although that's the key to the birthday blues for many. I know one woman who's spent every birthday since she turned 30 alone on a park bench with a bottle of red wine, mournfully toasting another passing year. I know another who flees interstate every year so she doesn't have to tell anyone how old she's turning.
But if it's not the age part that depresses me, what is it? My friend Christy has a theory: ``When you're a kid, your parents are totally responsible for your birthday. They buy the presents, send out the invitations and organise the party. You just wake up and have fun. But as an adult, you're responsible for the merrymaking yourself. You want a party? You do it."
Somehow it just feels a bit sad having to call and email your friends to ask if they'll give up their time and money to celebrate with you. It's like having to ask your boyfriend ``do you love me?". When you have to ask, it doesn't count.
Consequently, I hardly ever have birthday parties. I'm always too insecure that no one will want to come and I end up getting totally stressed which kind of dilutes the point; that is, fun.
I have one friend who famously insists everyone make a huge deal of her birthday but is hopeless on everyone else's. Last year we had lunch on my birthday (my suggestion) and she blithely tossed the following birthday greeting to me: ``I was going to get you a card but they were all crap." Super. For some, it's the element of birthday stocktaking that can cause huge angst.
``My birthday always forces me to examine my life more closely than I want to," admits one friend. ``This year, I turned 34 and I always assumed by now I'd be married with kids or at least in a committed relationship with babies in my near future. I'm really happy being single most of the time but on my birthday it's somehow more confronting."
My brother's birthday is on January 1 and this is not fun for him. Sure, the whole world wants to party the night before but on your actual birthday, your friends are invariably too hungover to even remember their own name, let alone call you.
But even that pales in comparison to those poor buggers born on Christmas Day. I had a school friend whose birthday was December 25 and she always felt incredibly ripped off, even as a kid. ``Try feeling special when everyone in the house gets presents on your birthday," she'd say. ``Not to mention that people give you a `combined' birthday/Christmas present, unlike everyone else who gets both."
In summary, sharing your birthday with Jesus is not ideal. I must console myself with that fact next year.
Straight eye for the queer guy
NEW Monday night tradition: texting your friends madly while you watch Queer Eye For The Straight Guy . I'm already addicted to this show and I want desperately to be the new best friend of Carson (blond, fashion queer guy with top lip full of collagen). I haven't yet found an actual straight guy who admits to watching this show but we chicks and gay guys are tuning in enthusiastically. How many attendees at Sleaze Ball would have had an ``aha!" moment around 2am and decided they absolutely MUST apply for the local version?
© 2003 Sun Herald
